I am tired of concealing the smile tattooed on the face of my heart.
I much prefer to bare it to the world.
Instead, I sit alone in the company of make-believe;
scavenging time and the rubble of memories

to determine which are real and which are contrived.

I am exhausted by the low-hanging fog of uncertainty,

And the odd stillness that envelopes me,

making it harder to make sense of the enduring silence.
It forces me to bite my tongue and manage feelings.

Hope is like the pied piper

pulling delicately on the soft chambers of your heart.
Its rhythms are warm like the touch of a friend.

Hope is a piping hot mocha,

oozing comfort on cold days.
It is the crackling warmth of a gentle fire

that somehow allows a heart to heal and believe again.

Hope is a free-spirited companion,

who lifts your soul and carries you like the wind.
It caresses your heart, teaches you to take deep breaths
and reopen yourself to new experiences.

The heart is a passionate storyteller.
It is talkative; but chooses to leave many things unsaid.
It thrives on intuition and is all-knowing.
It dislikes U-turns.
It is a realist who eagerly takes leaps of faith;
a pugilist who telegraphs its punches;
and a pacifist who turns the other cheek.

But the heart is not spineless.
It will take a stand, alone if necessary,

because it understands its own heart.
It will champion compromise

but remains true to itself.