A fool is he who believes,
That the heart cannot be split in two,
Or three, or four, or five, or more.
The notion of a soul mate, deceives.
Even the most guarded of hearts,
Falls victim to Love's tune and cue,
On a past-burning, on the new-yearning;
A crescendo of desire of the splintered parts.
Neither insecurity nor guilt,
Can prevent that unbridled spark,
Awaiting no pause, and needing no cause,
Thus new passion, on ember-ed passion, is built.
So is it then, a curse or relief-
When the heard chords kept in dark,
Fracture and halt, inciting Passion's assault-
That courage engulfs, albeit brief?
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