There’s a hard place where the heart goes,
recessed in forgotten lobes
retained from the time we knew no happy.
Now the frontal sings of joy, despair,
water flows, its drops are prescient,
telling us which way to go.
You’re a rock shined in places
other times rubbed raw with grief
abandoned in a far-off cave, a shroud.
The stone lies heavy on a chest
of doubt and pain, lifted, you see,
a gem appears in calloused hands
and somewhere in the labyrinth of turns
there is a pinpoint door, a needle of life,
drink me small and you shall find it.