My heart is but a fishing bobber:
Pallid and crimson, split in color.
When casted from pole, to sea, or lake
or pond, perhaps.
Floating uneasy atop the drift,
To billow in ripple; bobbing over forgotten wakes.
To reel it in would be a lost cause
Because one would save a thing if it were drowning
But for what? For what?
To save my bobber heart from drowning? Why?
The Human Healer’s Stories 