This little heart of mine there a times it can be daft

​

The Little Heart

Oh, my poor, poorest heart,

how it doth ache within my chest;

a fragile chamber, small and torn,

that cannot seem to rest.

Within this quiet room of tears

where gentle sorrows start,

the rain falls softly, drop by drop,

inside my fragile heart.

Each tear a whisper of the past,

each sigh a silent pain;

and though the storm may fade away,

the echoes still remain.

Yet in these trembling little hands

a wounded heart I keep—

a fragile bloom of love and loss

that even tears must weep.