Of Broken Heart

A glass was thrown
on floor before dawn;
scattered into pieces
cut the heart to slices.

A mad poet is weeping,
hasn’t have a nice sleeping;
His heart can’t be dreaming
Injured. Broken. Sad. Crying.

No threads can sew the pieces.
No glues can tie the slices.
No pills can cure the heart.
A mad poet’s heart isn’t hard!

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