Today I found out that a broken heart

is just a metaphor, if the real one
shines brilliantly, stitched with a golden part,
painting rhythms in its rays like the sun:
He's knocking at the door now. The soldier
stands under the lintel, musket shouldered,
with his steady grimace betraying fear
as he returned to the home he once fled:
He thought it was for war; no it was peace
that he deserted his roots to take arms
up over the plume; in his old room fleece
quilts nurtured the bed with old homespun charms:
He saw a notebook, brand new, to the right,
and with a knowing grin began to write.
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