the unsaid
makes a damaged heart,
like the feigned lustre
of a broken glass;
jagged edges
that shine unevenly,
you place a finger
and bleed mercilessly,
the unsaid
through no fault of its own
begets a lifetime
of internal cold war;
one where no last man stands
in a battle against the brave,
one where it reduces
to a dead man’s grave,
the unsaid is a heart
imprisoned
by its own silence,
while reminiscent
of its forgotten defiance,
it dreams and dreams
of liberation
yet dwells and dwells
in its own desolation,
in all that’s left to be said,
the feigned lustre
of a broken glass
won’t let it,
because most of what
could be said
would leave you
shattered
and torn apart.
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