Life Without Love Is A Hermit's Charade Poem by Mark Heathcote

There are hearts in a charade
That can-never-be lit
Whose shining patina is constantly-on-the-blip?

With bricks, trowel and a spade
They'd build a concrete wall.
Never-allowing their inner selves to glow or pall.

They'll live alone and can't be-dissuade
It's a hermit's life for them again.
Until, their final amen!

Their fatigue is to be, buffeted
And unloved, but I'll say it again
Their hearts are living in a cold charade.