The heart is an organ of little logic.
It wants to know, but doesn’t seek discovery.
It wonders: Was it me, something I said, did?
It needs to know why she hasn’t written, hasn’t called.
It despises it’s darkened cage; it would much rather flourish in light.
Yet it cannot open the door.
It was light outside before the door was closed,
But now?
Now it doesn’t know what to expect
and fears that the world outside its cage
Will be darker than inside.
It bolts the door, several times,
Puts tables and desks and chairs before it
To forever prevent it from opening.
The heart sits for the rest of eternity in its cage,
not knowing whether outside that door is
Light or dark,
But content in its cage,
Hoping it is light.