I hold it in my hands.
It is small.
Fragile.
Broken.
I have only one job now.
To fix it.
Mend.
Complete.
I can feel it beat aloud.
A dying heart.
Failing.
Falling.
But I know how to heal it.
It takes time.
Patience.
Love.
Every day I work on it.
I won't rest.
Work.
Fix.
It consumes me, this stubborn heart.
It must live.
Thrive.
Grow.
I am one of the Menders.
One job only.
Mend.
Restore.
Love.
YOU ARE READING
At the End of All Things
PoetryMoons and suns rise and dip Below the horizon Yet still life flows onward In all of its glory Icy winter crowned in Mistletoe and holly and frost, Bound in crystalline perfection, Tender spring, sweetly singing Seductive in its melodies, Beckoning w...
