The heart is like a honeycomb, <br />Each section having many rooms: <br />Faith, and love, and hope, and trust. <br />Some hearts were never made to stand <br />The pains that years of life will hand; <br />Yet bear that pain we must. <br />So in those rooms of honeycombs <br />There are many silent, sacred tombs <br />With locks that never rust. <br />Each searing pain will close a door, <br />And, though we walk on as before, <br />There is a little less of us. <br />And, sometimes in the evening's gloom, <br />We reach into some closed off room <br />And drag a skeleton from a shelf; <br />And, though we do not understand, <br />We turn it o'er as best we can, <br />And put it back to rest.<br /><br />Adeline Foster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cicatrix/
