A Broken Piece Can Kill
A friend once told me his heart was split in two.
One side in a burning mess of ashes and embers,
And the other in a sweet paradise of blooming flowers.
I asked him which side he was on.
He explained he was in the flames, slowly melting away.
I tried to tell him to move on or try again.
He said it was simply too late.
But then he shoved a knife to my throat and challenged me.
He said he would try his best, against me.
I accepted the task, but if not only with an open mind.
He gave up before the match even started, however.
He said he didn't stand a chance.
And I disagreed with him.
But even if I had told him he was more,
The shattered pieces of his broken heart had already hit his other organs.
And he bled slowly from the puncture wounds left in him.
He wept and cried but I couldn't move to save him.
I simply watched him die in front of me.
He fell with a loud thud against the floor,
Surrounded in his own scarlet blood.
And I couldn't do anything about it,
Besides, watch my friend die.