Bled Out





This pale heart of mine

struggles with atony.

Paper curls rain down

from a fenestrated sky:

Reams of esoteric paeans 

     soon crumpled by bored scientists.


Lanterns hang in line,

swaying along vein-like ropes.

Slivered stars spin out

of a hematic night sky.

Eventide bows down to full dark,

     come to drown my reparations.


You hope to become

a surgeon, a healer.

You cut me open,

sliced tissue in your wonder.

Wealth bolstered your aspirations

     as your acumen grew sterile.


Balcony lights glow;

students studying o-chem.

Watching those stars whir,

a panoply now fading,

I extinguish each puerile flame.

     So too does my love burn to ash.


I hoped to counsel

the procession of wayward souls,

when all along I

bled out of neglected wounds.

Prescient doctors predict a

     Christmas disease before snowfall.     







This strong heart of mine

rests in a peaceful stasis,

caring for the innocence

and science of your mind.




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