When there is nothing remaining to be rent, how then can still feel my heart being sundered apart? Why is it that an empty space feels too heavy to be borne? Why is it that I can hear the waves dashing against my ear drums even as I stand stranded in a parched desert?
On a dead heart
Clammy hands holding my breathless heart
Squeezing it
Red rivulets flowing down
Your cold fingers
Trying to extract
All the warmth
That once flowed through my veins;
Do you not know that dead things
Have no more heat
Than the ice veins
Running in a glacier?
Ramblings
The time keeper wound the clock
Yet again
Refusing to see the broken hands
That had stopped
Along with his heart;
She wound it
And kept watching
Until her hands bled
Torrents
And these began to keep their own time
Moving and answering
Only To Gravity;
She watched them
Seep through
To the Earth below
And waited
For her turn.
He Said, She Said
He Said: Where is the dynamo I knew? I miss her terribly.
She Said: I locked her up to keep her safe. She got too far ahead of herself. It was too much work hunting her down, scraping her up off the road and cleaning the mess.
On Conformation
A Scream
Choked Off
Curtailed
Pushing against my jugular
Strangling my consciousness
Hating me
Vilifying me
For being dishonest to myself
Conformation be damned!
