In my heart there is room for mystery and grace.
Not so for hard-looking happy people with
sensible shoes and stock smiles.

In my heart the loopholes of the lost are
laced with golden harp strings
playing daily in the ballroom where
dance the lonely ones.

Shimmering, moldering loves arise
to meet me face-to-face.
Grace-to-grace.
I’ve come unlaced.

Things are not how they seem but otherwise.
Come let us sing and play the songs we
love so much.
Perhaps the heart will grace us with its
tattered song.
The heart with no companion
is the sweetest note….

Vicki Woodyard
Author, Life With A Hole In It