Blunt Force Trauma

Twenty whacks of an ax to the heart
Not a clean cut but the blunt flat end
Mashing and mangling from the start
Beaten to a pulp this pump won't send

A lonely limp lump lying lethargically flaccid
Lifeless in present charred puddled form
An unmoving monument to Love most placid
Yet deep within whispers a gentle storm

Deeply rooted, past all the cuts and burns
In small butterfly whispers a pulse begins
A mustard seed of Hope that forever yearns
Waiting Nature's call, coping, forgiving sins

Building upon small positives my heart heals
A Pulsing Phoenix built up from bitter ashes
Fleshing out the emptiness her touch seals
Strengthening my soul, batting her eyelashes

If just the thought of her touch gives me hope
A solid foundation to base my mending heart
I push to prop this healing vessel now to cope
Primping and polishing till this becomes Art