My Own Heart, To Mend

In my Colorful spree,
Of streaming imagination,

Sailing winds and seas,
Staying clear of resignation,

A storm beyond belief,
Strikes me,
Bringing hesitation.

How must I greet thee?

Another day spent,
In the labyrinth
A world, so old,
Filled with a love bold,
And humanities sold.

One without the other,
Never did exist,
What is a pretender without the thing in which to pretend?
And how am to contend,
With loneliness?

For I have my own heart,
To mend.