Whole

As solid air flowed
amongst the papers
strewn.  Hearts belonging
to ancient Greeks blossomed
and he knew the sound of love was
painfully loud.

I, the broken brother
of gods swimming in Lethe
watched and played on a violin
my sad lament to poor boys, lost
and struck by an insatiable desire
to not feel alone.

Hold on to whence hearts
have gone to feel their own beat.
I stood upon the maker’s shoulders
and wept at the flaws so delicately crafted.
“Man,” he said, “must always feel alone,
else they can never be whole.”