When a part drifts away, it is more than just a leaf in the wind.
It is not only a twig snapped from a weakened branch or
a small pocket knife just nicking the corner of a hard oak table.
When a part of the heart leaves, it is more than the small sting of a needle.
It jabs more than the padded protected tip of a jousting sword.
It bleeds more than a paper cut slashed into a finger pad.
When a piece of the heart is torn away, it is the gun shot wound.
It is the aftermath of a nuclear bomb sitting in your chest.
It is opening up your eyes to see a serial killer posed with an axe.
When a piece disappears from sight, you only want to fight as a samurai warrior.
It is the desire to embody William Wallace and die, just to find the piece again.
It is the stirring of the colonists against the British to die for hope.
It is the faith that the piece will drift back one day.
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