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Purple Heart

Under the yew in acrid taste; poison on my tongue

Where consternation grows as wild as this overgrowth

To have lived so long in the bitterness of a memory

Red passion, lights that signal; the end, stop.

As I try to pick up these small fragments

Fallen and cursed to grow into the now dyspeptic 

Grown ill and still, unmoving words cobble together becoming the plinth on which I petrify

I am terrified as the limberness and joy in my smile fall sullen 

The elasticity of my soul is too, waning 

Wrinkles in the fabric of time will hide who we were

Just as we hid away under warm sheets on cold winter nights

Pneumatic puffs creating small clouds in the dark, our heaven 

But the air here is transparent and without

Warm and preventing of a glacial cessation

My heart keeps beating violently defying the nature of its love 

Alone I try not to breathe so that it too can be blue 

© The Sad Owl

Categories: poetry Prose

Tagged as:

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.

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