Hearts are fragile,
often sewn together
with a loose black lace.
We dress these wounds,
filling them to the brim.
Often the holes begin to seep red like the wine,
pouring from our cracks and breaking us further.
Yet,
even when it's only our fault,
you still cry..
Why is that?
YOU ARE READING
Tears of a Butterfly
RandomMeh, a poem. Why not. I'm in a creative mood. Plus, I've had this thing for two years. It deserves a bit o' love. (There'll be more than one poem.)
