Love Lost and Yearning
A lonesome heart beats softly in the chest,
Its rhythm beating names the mind forgot.
Each pulse recalls the warmth that once caressed,
Each silence mourns the echo that is not.
It holds its breath, afraid to break the dream,
Afraid to weep, lest memory awake—
For love once flowed like sunlight on a stream,
And left behind the shimmer of its wake.
If only time could cradle what was dear,
And grief grow gentle, softened into art;
But still, it beats, through longing and through fear—
This faithful, foolish, ever-living heart.
Slowly, sweetly, though the nights depart—
It beats for love, and calls it life’s own art.
Meditation on the Mechanical Persistence of Life
A lone heart beats slowly, without will,
Its lifeblood withheld, its rhythm spare.
The body moves, but all within is still—
An echo trapped in unremembered air.
It holds its tears as though they might restore
A world already vanished, pale, and cold.
Each memory, a wound it can’t ignore,
Each pulse, a tolling bell for what grows old.
If to breathe is pain, then cease the breath;
If to feel is loss, let numbness start.
No life remains but that which mimics death—
A beating void within an empty heart.
Slowly, slowly, until it is done—
The pulse goes on. The meaning—none.
WoPoLi 
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