Hearts are made of but blood and veins,
He asks a no-longer-needed world; bring the end,
Carried alone to bed, on mute and hour showers,
Disappearing like fog; watching you walk away in silence.
Though this wound is deeper than we first thought,
Thru burning, shaking-hell fires,
Hold, hold, hold; to your soul’s azure defiance.
Love is made of but ephemera and ideas,
Her nourishing hope crumbles into lost summer tears,
A leaking, lock-pattern of an anti-enchanter,
In a furious repeat spiral; left behind without answer.
But empathy; empathy is the internal seed,
Two-twenty hundred miles into space; stripped free
Of deceit, hurt or loyalty,
There it was, there it grows; your maitrī.