Scattered

Pieces of her heart
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 lay
each it's own masterpiece
pure in it's design
hardened by time
daylight peers 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


[the inspiration for this was bread, scattered outside my door, and a little bit of something else]