Fresh Ink 2020
A HEART IN A GLASS HOUSE Nathan Fitzgerald* My heart is heavy I think my sorrow weighs me down. Has my heart always been this heavy? Or have I lost the strength to carry? Anxiety? Maybe. Depression? Closer. My heart used, reused, and abused Wear and tear have worn it down. I feel my heart pump, but I hear no beat. I’d say the heart of a man is stored in a glass house, The glass house of soul. But what fun or purpose is his house If a man has no friends to welcome in his home? Yet one day a man might proclaim “Ah, look at this one!” And he will choose “I’ll share her all I have, for her to use!” He will offer her the key To which she’ll say I do. The treasures of his heart she owns All the power to make of him the fool. It’s been said to never throw stones from a glass house, And I would agree. But it’s been less said to never steal from one, What a tragedy this is, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
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