I take a pencil and begin to write
And will my defeated heart into flight:
It seeks and tests the newborn airs of spring;
But frightened it recoils back within.
The mind and the heart – they are never one!
One seems the moon and the other the sun:
One has layers and layers of being;
The other different ways of seeing;
In one matter, they’re affected the same,
When one has a limp, the other goes lame.
Poesy takes wing at times from burnt hope,
When the mind thinks with a million’s scope,
Crystalizing with the breaking of the heart,
Into words that represent tortured art.