Paper thin

she said, the handling of a heart
Is indeed a very delicate art,
blood vessels burst as the organ has to jump start-
Dead again. No amount of love can mend
Or hem once it has been bled or left
out. In the cold she sees how dreams can
be unseen or even unheard of, in this blinded
society of unconscious behavior, tamed curator
of this delicate art which like much matter,
dissolves at the touch, burns up, the crust of our
Inner planet, orbiting pulmonary artery, hardly
could one say love is not worth dying for,
it takes in more souls than the devil would.