Quiet heart
The heart is a quiet, weeping thingWhich hardly can contain
The memories of happier times,
The sweet and bitter pain.
Yet sometimes, when the weeping stops
And anger is unfurled,
It grows, and swells, as if to burst,
As if to fill the world.
So strange, or thus it seems to me,
How finely it remembers
Each moment of those heady days
Before the dying embers.
When anger fades to resignation,
They will make it smile,
The recollection of our days,
For just a little while,
Then all the feelings disappear,
Like the White bear, sleeping,
The heart will close its eyes again,
Secretly, silently weeping.
Poetry by Marie Cadavieco
Read 595 times
Written on 2018-03-13 at 00:22
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