The man sat ‘neath the moon and stars,
soul’s deep tears like liquid scars.
They asked him of how big his heart;
he spoke through whispers of his art.
He told the tales of paths mistaken
that made his heart swell up with hope.
Nightmares seen by Poe’s lone Raven
supplied his lonesome, noose-shaped rope.
How big a heart has he who gives
to those around for whom he lives?
He deigned to give the moon and stars
but he sighed instead with passing cars.
So now he writes a verse quite true,
explaining his enormous heart.
He filled his soul complete with rue,
detailed his end before the start.
He suffered much, and smiled slow;
his pain was great, but few could know.
Ask him not of how big his heart,
but ask him now: how big each shard?