What comes after the ineffable flow of heart?

The soul that roots himself in hope, the words that come filtered through years of self-deploration and shards of a broken bottle – crushed under merciless feet and pieced together over and again. Time heals, but how? The words flow with the heart worn on his sleeve; no hesitation, no regrets. A grimace, and a wry smile of acceptance. He walks on.

But feet, they tire; hearts lose their warmth. With every stab a piece is lost, never to be found again. He is whole, but with every step he turns cold. He believes in his destiny, a piece of life he wears proudly on his chest. Perhaps he should keep it in his heart and there only, for why should he open his destiny up to be tested, his heart up in the air to be smashed?

In that, life is a cruel game. It shows you what it could be, and with every step takes this future away. A carrot hanging from a string unseen, rewarding only the fortuitous. One gets nowhere running in circles. The worst fate is that he knows he does.

The world is not made for one like him. Or perhaps he is the one who is not made for the world. But his heart, though battered, is bottomless. Or so he hopes.

Perhaps only pain follows.