So I just saw Les Miserables for the first time professionally. It was wonderful and I have to say Enjolras, though extremely attractive, did not capture my heart nor fancy so much as Grantaire. So I'm in poem mode now and this little bugger needs to be written. Tell me your thoughts but no flames please.
A statue's heart once shattered by the love another bore,
To start a flame a revolution, a conflagration of soaring hearts
In passion.
Did not steal yet this heart that has yet,
Learned to feel.
Instead a feeling heart was stolen,
By another man.
Indecisive in his belief,
Yet his emotions freely shown,
His weight, weighing most.
His humor, in the darkness of the darkest night.
His smile and his laugh,
The way he comforts and caresses,
The child of the street,
One who feels not did
The broken heart not love,
But the man who has been broken,
This heart of crushed stone did trust.
One who did not understand, the people for whom he'd fought,
The other seemed to know too well,
Their
Each
And
Every
Thought.
The broken pieces shattered across the floor,
A statue, bottle broken,
His eyes stare,
Her eyes return,
To one as broken as she.
For one who appears together always,
Will not win the hearts of those who are not.
The bottle that was shattered,
In the frustration of a death,
Her hands did pick up shaking,
At the brandy on his breath.
He plops down upon a bench,
Her hands rub o're his knees.
"You are a leader," she whispers.
"To those who seek humanity.
Revolution gets us so far,
But emotion,
Takes us farther still,
Passion,
is to nothing,
As emotion is to all.
The beating heart is here,
Not inside some chests.
For when Passion and Believing,
Meet emotion true:
There will lovers
Of the true community lie.
For without emotion,
No love is truly true."
Her heart conflicts,
For there she sees,
A child merely thirteen,
She pledges her love for a statue,
And cynic she turns away.
She pleads her case before him
For many years to come.
Until one day a woman,
Of sixteen she becomes.
Her eyes are opened and there she sees,
Statues do not love,
For behind her with her former self,
The statue stands.
But on that path of life,
A loving, sarcastic, cynic stands,
Waiting with open arms,
A palm out stretched,
Behind her are the gun shots of her former life,
Ahead,
Ahead awaits,
An emotional, feeling man,
Who believes the truth the statue speaks,
With all the heart of a living man.