Hollow Hearts (Monday Morning) Poem by Helen Wilson

Heart groping a hollow chamber,
Conscious of what is not,
Taking stock of what is:
Despair? Absent.
Meaning? Absent.
Reassurance? Late again.

Eyes unfocused, feet moving,
Mouth talking, hands working,
Inurred to the world.
Robbed of purpose by
Interminable duty
And still the hollow heart beats.

Noise riquochets off chamber walls,
Smoothed by tides of ceaseless action.
Until, slowly,
A wave of reflection
Creeps in
To dampen the echo.

Where is the soul that guards the heart?
It’s here in the listening;
In the knowledge that
This too shall pass;
In compassion
For others with hollow hearts.