The Art of Feelings

Damaged… Not Broken

There was a little jar,
That used to sit
By my windowsill,
Of red.

The red of a pure heart,
Of the blood
Of sacrifice
And all else held dear
Close to mind.

There was a little jar,
That used to sit
By my windowsill,
Of white.

The white of innocence,
Of a pure mind,
Of pure love,
Pure intentions.

There was a little jar,
That used to sit
By my windowsill.
It shattered.

Broken it fell,
Spilled away all its contents,
The mixture
White and red.

But it was not broken,
The contents.
Just damaged,
But never beyond repair.

Special thanks to Thomas for spending all those weird nights with me… Damaged but not broken.

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