Take these humble hearts,
those who trust, perchance, too much,
the ones who now shelter themselves
from the agony which lingers
from trying; from hoping; from
believing there could be more.
 
Heathens, yes, for lack of a more apt word
but neither an infidel, nor a fool.
Where trust is too much, there is faith
without discretion. There remains a
longing few can see, or realize,
for they need to believe.
 
See these unwilling victims
not for what they have not been, but for
each tiny gesture, shameless notion, and
act of empathy, however inferred. 
Allow them to create, leave them 
to their ways. Let them be.
 
Teach them, these broken souls, 
not to look for the lesson, but to accept
the graceless guidance oft shone into
clotted shadows. Knowingly they will
expand and contract in self-preservation, 
self-examination, and sorrow.
 
It is there, in seclusion, where errors in
understanding take on perspective. There, 
those humble hearts, may come back 
to being. Each carries a pulse. They bleed
silently and remorsefully. They have loved 
you before, and may again.
 

© 2017 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month