Mending broken hearts

She breaks the spell, lets the morning burst
in a palette of images and colors.
Around the graves of the broken hearts
she waves her hands in unique shapes and manners.

Dreams are no longer what she thought
but the trick is to keep dreaming along,
Insanity doesn’t mean too much
as long as the crazy ones are all of the others

She looks upon shooting stars
as the friends, she probably never had
There’s nothing much left to hide
in the remainders of a past hardly grasped

That’s why she’s wondering
whether there’ll be no surprise to know that
in the wake of tomorrow
she’ll find that rivers never run the same ground twice

Now she’s mending broken hearts
as she whispers in the air to passersby
but strangers barely hear what she says
as the roses’ thorns do no harm when not there

She’s spending time and time
tracing back where the roots of loneliness lie
some may call it sacrifice
some may say there is no point of turning back

She’s now mending broken hearts
in the boundaries of any wounded pride
in the silent tones of phones and their ears,
where no sound is to be given off

Any road, any park,
any quiet place that she moves around
in the hidden smiles of lonely ones and their tears
in the fragile shell of feelings yet to come