Bread Crumbs

Pieces of her heart-

Were scattered like old bread
outside the door, waiting to
see who gets to it first.

Will it be the morning deer,
eager to lick her hand?
Will it be the night predators
waiting in the darkness to attack?
Or will it be the birds
soaring from heights unknown,
zeroing in on their target?

Silently the pieces laid,
each it's own masterpiece,
pure in it's design,
hardened by time.

Sunrise peeks over the horizon,
the pieces are gone and the
victor knows not of the tormented
fragments, or their chiseled shape-

Only the sated disappearance
of an ancient hunger

consummated

complacent

complete

Her pieces scatter no more.