Shattered Oblivion's blog: "Poetry, mayhaps?"

To most people the heart is a reassurance that there is life,
Each heartbeat meaning that perhaps you are safe,
Safe from the rigid, sharp blades of the world.

Who is to say that this beating heart may have it's pace quicken,
Merely by the chance at seeing someone.

Is this that fiddle player love?

The one who plays gentle soothing melodies with the strings of your heart,
Or even almost painful torrents of notes all together.

Ah, but isn't the heart a resemblance of this fiddle player?
Isn't the heart the mere foundations where love resides?
Or is love merely something to preoccupy the heart?

Is it not the beating heart of a lover that reassures you as you are drawn near,
Led to believe that all is well and will continue to be so?

Is that the meaning of the heart?

What happens when that lover becomes a source of pain,
One of which makes this lover almost unable to bared any longer?

Is that when the fiddle player has finally drawn the last few, sorrowful notes?
The ones that signify the end of a dance for your heart,
Be it a waltz or any dance at all?

Yet the heart will do it again,
It will quicken it's pace as another comes only to your mind.

Is this when you are supposed to surrender to the fiddle player and try once more?

Your heart will rise to the occasion to try and makes ends meet with this new song,
Attempting to draw in the focus of you eye.

Perhaps this time you are being contented by drawing this lover into your arms,
Hearing their heartbeat,
Taking in their alluring warmth.

It is this time when they are taken away from your grasp,
Taken away as to never be given to you again.

This is when the fiddle player's string's break, but the fiddle player still attempts at song.

What good is a fiddle missing a string,
The string of which draw together your heart?

Only now does the fiddle player have notes that screech and are played out of tune,
Shattering what seems to be the glass walls of your heart,
The shards cutting away at it's very foundations.

Even battered and bleeding,
The fiddle player will continue its work.

Waiting for the next victim of its songs.