Trust. A strong word indeed! How often do we lose ourselves to this vicious encumbrance? Such a tremble affair it is, once broken, hard to
bind, hard to fix. If only few emotions had the power to be controlled, if only
the obvious sense organs were not always relied upon. But what about the heart?
Sadness to the lack of filters to what it credits.
A slow poison sometimes, a foe for sure. For the word stays
true to its originality, an angel in despair it seems, but could be a demon in
eventualities.
Sealed are those eyes to accept the real, once broken, the
tarnished pieces try hard to be bound. Never, never does it find its way back,
for every edge of the broken piece is a sword that pierces sharp. Every tear
those pillows bear are silences that are best kept secrets.
A broken heart is the best pain, an oxymoron indeed, for the
heart that bears this shatter could endure any distress.
The irony is amusingly undeniable. For the strength that it births is tremendous.
With this would come a slender ray of sparkling sunshine, a
glimmer that would tickle every nerve of your being. For once the fragments
mold into a new shape, the world would become a better place.
Novice, the heart would beat again, looking for better,
fighting its past into a most gorgeous new world.
Finally, trust would become more
of a clear phenomenon.
