One spark, and now a conflagration.
One regal tree silhouetted in a forest fire.
Old flames die, leaving consternation
at the damage here, done by hot desire
which leaves unscathed the focus of concentration,
but continues to burn and more flames inspire.

If one can stand it, the head cools while the heart anneals,
and that thief may be burned by the very love she steals!

You think you will die and, in dying, find life sweet,
consider dead what does not throb with feeling
whatever it is that possesses you from head to feet,
integrating the whole into fewer parts, all reeling,
intensifying, whether or not your love you meet –
some Incompletion has found you appealing!

Well-acquainted we become with primal loneliness
praying at the sacred shrine to passing loveliness.

The broken heart is broken in, is toughened,
and time, which heals all wounds, is cruel.
But harder is that heart deeply hurt, once softened,
that fears old times, not so very good, the rule
and puts up defenses against what was too often
the very love that heart fears will play it the fool

The heart that has not been hurt, has never loved.
The heart that cannot love again was never loved.