the imperfect heart

The heart is an imperfect organ, a bad design. Despite the cage wherein it lies, still it bleeds and weeps for the careless, ceaseless buffeting dealt it by Dame Time.

Better if it were cast in bronze, or iron to withstand life's vagaries; let it be stainless steel, to resist the water damage of an age of tears; let it not be gold, nor silver, nor platinum, for already we reckon it too precious.

Better to cast this heart hard and then let it be, for even as it lifts us up, always back we crash down, ever down. Better equipped is the hard heart to bounce -- to absorb shock and strife and sorrow without a whimper.

The hard heart might bend, but never break; it might still pump and thump, but never bleed; it's endearing to neither us nor others, so we need not fear its care, nor that such care might be carelessly given to the unworthy.

It's a bad design, this heart that breaks so easily and mends so slow.