They always sing of broken hearts,
people sweep up shattered dreams
But rarely is one so lucky
to have that break be clean
What of all the fractures –
quivering hairline cracks?
What of all the injuries,
in vain, being pressed back?
It’s not always as obvious:
this tremor of the soul
Its victims never tenebrous:
sometimes young. Seeming whole.
When skin is pale and ivory –
veined blue like porcelain vase
When eyes are lifted proudly,
their hot light slightly glazed;
when they sweep across the room
to meet a budding fleur-de-lys,
the elder doesn’t realize that
she sees a soul already creased.