But really,
Isn't the heart no more than an organ?
My heart is made of cells,
And my cells are made of dust,
And someday, to dust they will return, as will I.
That is why I do not love you with my heart.
My heart is finite, but my love is not.
Instead, I love you with my soul.
For my soul will not wilt, and it will not die,
Even if I do.
© 2015
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Fragments
Poetry"Tomorrow's not promised. It may not arrive. So why do we waste The days we are alive?" A collection of poems and songs. #81 in Poetry | April 28, 2015 © 2015
