love stained floor

the voices echo hauntingly among the shattered pieces. the pieces are hearts, ripped apart by the emptiness of our world. they can't pick themselves up, they will always be the broken. they will never be the same, but always split and cracked. so why are they like this, shamefully discarded on the cold stone floor? Because of false-love, and the fleeting fancies skittering across our world. and still the voices echo around the cracked hearts, who lie there still. like a cracked tea set. like a cracked, smashed, lonely tea set left for the rain to wash away the delicate flower paintings that were carefully drawn so long ago. 

and as the cups will never hold tea again, will the hearts ever again hold love?

But still the voices are echoing. who are they? they are the ridiculers, the ones who dashed the hearts to the floor without a care. now they laugh, and chant. they stare down on the floor of hearts sneering at the brokenness, pain, sorrow and emptiness. who knew a room full of broken hearts could feel so, so empty? 

but do the ridiculers know that their hearts, banging on their chests violently as they laugh and scoff, are so close to falling out? their hearts that kept them going through the smashing, the laughing and the mocking are too worn. soon they will tumble down, with the little love in them oozing away, staining the floor.