A feathery thing

Resigned to the idea that my heart was no longer viable, time had hardened it into stone. 

How could this perpetual thud in my chest be so sincere and resilient amongst such grievous wreckage? 

A smooth stone sculpted in a bumbling gurgling brook of drowning tears had declared it thus. 

I, taking to and folding in fetal to embrace my enduring solitude, could not escape the quiet moments that began to crush all eternal hope. Left alone in a cage of unrelenting cerebral assaults, came to the realization my essence was far more fragile. 

This heart of mine, my lovely lyrical heart was really just a feathery thing that too often took flight, soaring at such grandiose and marvelous heights only to plummet again at such agonizing and terrible depths. 

Never still, the wings of hope carry my song, and it lives on the sweeping wind. Sometimes it sends me spiraling and sometimes on melody and rhythm, pinion and plumage I magically glide.