It is not in painful contrition with which I reminisce.
Not for the rotted roots of lost love nor the empty echoes of avoidance.
Still, my heart is undone.
It unravels at the notion of passage.
It aches at the mark inscribed on my soul and as I panic to find relief, I make no move to coil myself up again.
Employing weapons of cruelty so that I might know what It was like before time had abandoned me.
My heart is undone.
It unravels at the notion of time.
It is throttled under the weight of dimensions and as I stand, fruitless, I welcome it with inviting arms.
Because tragedy reeks of beauty.
Just as age reeks of youth, and love of loss, and life of death.
So I let my heart become undone. I make no attempt to coil myself up, or to deny my futility.
I mourn.
With an agonizing passion, an invincible love, I mourn.
Not for what we have lost
But because we can lose.
And we will lose everything.
My heart is undone.
I mourn.
Psuedothought 
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