Through the middle of our hearts, none so cold.

The center of our living body, taken so cruelly apart.
Few do not find what keeps them sewn up, love is bold.
To them love is non-existent. They trust in this art.
The people they think they love, leave them in ruin so sweet.
Now they love nobody, previous acts a sheer test.
They think, the one who loves me, I will never soon meet.
Now I must inform you, about the even worse rest.
For once in their lives they thought they could be happy.
Then the one who "loved" them ruined it all.
The one thing they could look forward to was being free.
They weren't depressed anymore, but then the ungrateful people made them fall.
People like them stay in a group, I'm sure you know them.
We are the ones magnificently gifted in writing a poem.