This is how it starts.
The thinnest wisp of smoke in the stomach,
The tinniest jolt in time.
The heart, as yet, remains unmarked.

But a flame with strength beyond control has sparked
And lends weight to the smoke that rises to choke
the lungs and throat and whatever remains
Of beauty, or brains.

The heart, as yet, remains unmarked.

I stood there in that fire, burning with sin,
In a court of mirrors where self professed higher powers,
Faithless and False, condemned my fatal flaw.
Their reflections gave a terrified grin,
Not liking what they saw.

The heart, not marked, but burning red raw

Gave way, not to fires, but ashes of doubt
And tears and stains
Of blood in veins that won't pour out
But oh God! It rains! It rains!

The heart, unmarked and yet still feeling, won't beat!
A drought! A drought!

Then standing in the quiet sea,
Whispering softly to deaf ears
Whilst the ebbing tide dried,
It took me years

To look up and find your eyes.

We both of us seemed drained
When I sat myself in the dark
And explained away the fires and smoke,
Whilst you, (impossibly), found a spark.

These rains have left their mark.
What remains, though, is my heart.