To the Heart

Can you see past the river where the torn ground spits out the sound
that eases doubt, and tremble of leaves is only fear, and perhaps deer,
a place unnamed where one sits and talks to the start?

It would appear that no one is here to listen to heart
that fills up each day with high octane and roars around the glitter,
pushing aside the chaos until there is a road that takes the lonely away from day.

The banter of lips is torn from touching heat so often, until blistered
they part and drink from this place where beginning is so cool
and the wash of life catches a callus that came from too much fool.

Too much filling up and letting out and filling again rubbed in,
and all that is left is to be here taking a breath and maybe asking a question
and listening as the sky quiets and the trees stop tremble,
to the heart.