Those that do.
Those bruises on her pretty heart,
and on her sprightly glow,
have pushed her soul to fall apart,
to still her want, to grow.
Such souls as stop a flowers light,
and push her into shade,
should they themselves, be torn of sight,
to see another glade.
Nor feel a breath of spring again,
or understand the right
of anything but spark and pain,
if they should steal such light.
Those bruises on her pretty heart,
handmade to tear a world apart.