In my heart,
There is a hole,
Where my last life sat.
As there is when something is removed.
The hole is but that.
A hole.
It holds no intention.
It is a hole.
It holds no malice.
For it is a hole.
It holds nothing at all.
Unless of course,
this void in my heart,
it is filled.
A vase to set these pretty flowers.
Room for brilliant evenings.
A spot to store lazes in the sun.
In my heart there is a hole,
Which can hold such many things.
A place to store new life and days unbegun.