Broken Heart

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I think this is the longest poem I've every written, uh, hope you like it. :)

Submitted: March 28, 2014

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Submitted: March 28, 2014



There she sits, patiently waiting.

There he paces back and forth.

Her golden hair in soft tendrils that flow down her back and shoulders.

He glances at her, but looks away.

He can’t deal with the pain.

Of seeing her face.

Not now. 

Not ever.


For she died.

The love of his life.



Never again to return.

To be with him.

To be his wife.

He paces back and forth in front of the huge fireplace.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

In front of the frame.

In front of the portrait.

In front of her.

The only tangible memory.

The only form of her left.

He cries out into the night.


His anger.

Why did the world have to take her.

From him.


This sick, cruel world.

Stole her.

And he’ll never get her back.

He holds his head in his hands.

And weeps.

For her.

He loved her.

He fills with tears.

And rises.

Bottled up with anger.

He rips the portrait frame from the wall.

It crashes to the floor and splinters. 

He glides his fingers along the cracks.

A jagged piece cuts his finger.

Blood drips slowly to the floor.

So do his tears.

They form a small pool.

Which he gazes into.

That’s when he sees her.

The love of his life.

In the pool of blood and tears.

On the floor in front of the fire.

He kneels and stares into the pool.

He tries to brush the hair out of her face like he used to.

But he wipes her watery image away.

He trembles and stands up.

He can no longer deal with the pain. 

He picks up the portrait and tosses it.

Into the fire.

He watches as all the colours melt together.

As her face disappears from the canvas.

Disappears from his mind.

The flames die down and he’s lying on the floor.

In a pool of tears.

Cold and wet. 

There’s no more fire.

There’s no more love.

Of his to give.

And he dies.

From a broken heart.

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