Cicatrix

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