Fault of being Earnest

Hopefully the heart,
Will hurt me more than you.
I tried too hard, you see,
And yet so very few.

What flowers shall in wilderness grow
I suppose,
Now that the wind which once claimed it, is free.

I am reminded of a verse,
In this pensive page of mine;
‘The Love that you lost,
Was never yours to be found,
Tis was a drifter, and you a wanderer,
Happening to be around’

How cold the claim of night,
I feel this weary day,
Why words gather in mute comfort,
When I have nothing of solace to say,
But to lay and to think,
Of those moments repeating far,
Alive forever,
Beyond this shape of scar.

Hopefully the heart,
Will hurt me more than you,
I tried too hard, you see,
And yet so very few.