How so would be one’s heart,
If one were to be torn apart,
By the frenzied hands of fate,
And thrown upon a blank slate;
A writing hand with constant motion,
Pulled along by the tides of emotion,
Waxing and waning,
Heart entertaining,
The constant whims of everlasting fate.
To write so truly; thought unrestrained,
The pure form of heart, unburdened to the unpained.
Unlinked from the senses both physical and mind;
The pure form of emotion is straight or aligned.
To not see the world through the lens of one’s eye,
But through the essence of heart, one could only try,
But to be unshackled so to see from pure perspective,
Would such a form not be perfective?
To write without influence from sound or the earth,
Such a whim to rival true rebirth.
A writer sans hearing, feeling and thought;
Would such a dream be truly unsought?
To write without frailty of form and of bone,
Willing to write of feeling alone.
Would one not truly see as they only would wish to see?
Or would such a fancy be only fantasy?
Though heart alone drives such impulse,
Without the rest; a lack of pulse,
The initial drive to discover emotion,
Not to be torn apart by one’s cyclical motion,
The tides of fate to pull one apart,
Born of self and one’s own heart.