heart of man

On the roof top of our souls, looking down on the heart below
shattered and cold. Half of what is use to be,
some of what it should be, broken and sold.
A wound so deep, pushed aside, dug deep berried alive.
Speak of the heart, poke of the tongue, the heart is good burning inside.
The center is wounded, wounded at war, a war of this world for the hearts of our souls.
Capture yours back, live again, seal the creases, mend the friend.