Poetry is lost
on a mangled heart.
It can soothe only so much,
like a free fall which brings
the kisses of algid winds
before you hit the ground,
crack open and leak.
It may touch with familiarity,
unbuttoning the cloak
of distance and desolation.
But does it enshroud us again
with new armour, new spells?
Or do the words on the page
remain frozen, tinged with
flattery,...