My heart has no lost corners.
No hidden chambers there.
It is a globe stretched full,
without a shield, laid bare.
It holds every soul
on this earth dear.
I wear it on my sleeve
more often than I should,
but I believe it better
broken, than unused.
For grief, it has pumped
two thousand tons of blood.
It has been rash and skipped
its beat, swept me from
my steady feet, ached in anguish,
even shame, stirred
not to name.
But malice has no room
and envy is gone soon,
fickle once, to be sure, oceans
of guilt it has endured.
It has, by love, been lured.
In truth, it cannot be cured.