An Answer;
Many are the Hearts
born to live, to love;
and in the living, the loving,
find that it is enough
to live,
to love.
And for the few
who this is not
enough? The hearts
born to bleed, to bleed slow
like the squeezing of the stones,
leaving a Rorschach
of ink
across
the sheet
of our Lives?
These are the bleedings
we come to call
Poetry.
(Wednesday, July 27, 2011 @ 23:45)