Bizarre is the heart,
And how it feels;
The days go by,
So spins the wheel.
Triumphs are up,
And triumphs are down.
Cycles of love,
Go round and round.
The consistent burn,
While spikes pierce through;
The healing bliss,
Of love that's true.
Love not returned,
The deepest pain.
It never can hide;
From pouring rain.
It resides alone,
Cold, soaked and lonely.
Till the wound is mended,
And the heart gets more comely.
a true poet you are