The heart is like a honeycomb,
Each section having many rooms:
Faith, and love, and hope, and trust.
Some hearts were never made to stand
The pains that years of life will hand;
Yet bear that pain we must.
So in those rooms of honeycombs
There are many silent, sacred tombs
With locks that never rust.
Each searing pain will close a door,
And, though we walk on as before,
There is a little less of us.
And, sometimes in the evening's gloom,
We reach into some closed off room
And drag a skeleton from a shelf;
And, though we do not understand,
We turn it o'er as best we can,
And put it back to rest.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (~Cicatrix by Adeline Foster )
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- My Grandmother Washes Her Feet in the Si.., Mohja Kahf
- Joan Rivers, Ima Ryma
- First October Twenty Fourteen, Tony Adah
- تحية طيبة, خليل مردم بك
- Happy Writer, Cynthia BuhainBaello
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