There are many different kinds of heartache.
The visible, earth shattering, volatile shriek;
The quiet, slow leaked, suffocating blister;
The banished, unfathomable, piercing vice;
The unassuming, shadowed, marooned wail;
The jailed, wild, storming stampede.
Like a virus, splitting once and then nursed,
Only to replicate into magnificent cells of heat
That burn like a thousand suns
That no amount of shelter can shade.
There is no antidote, no escape route.
No "x" marks the spot, no finish line, no parole.
There are many different safeguards
we craft to soothe our fears of losing
that which we could never own to begin with.
Yet no parachute could ever brace
the impact of knowing it is gone.
The only guarantee in life
is that it will change.
It will hurt like hell,
and it will change.
