30 January 2013
Lub-d
Lub-d.
Not all there in full working order.
Can you die of a broken heart?
It's not broken in the sense
That poets for years toiled and mooned over,
Not love's labours lost
But the odd bit here and there.
Funny.
Not funny haha
But a funny that never really places itself in this world
Yet is there nonetheless
Always watching and waiting
To spring Fate's nasty joke.
Lub-d
Lub-d.
It doesn't pump blood anymore;
This diseased and ashen bag of valves
And muscle that tires when it shouldn't,
It pumps a kind of bitterness
Which seeps into the core
And turns everything
To a dull and caustic grey.
Lub-d
Lub-d.
It removes any capacity
For warmth or comfort,
Or even a numbing kind of content
Which blurs ethereal lines
Much greater than any dose of morphine.
It kills each laugh in my throat
And makes heated, blushing skin
Ignited by passion
As cold winter snow on the bone.
Lub-d
Lub-d.
Maybe when another person dies
So that I may survive
In this never-ending, cruel old cycle ,
This survival of the fittest,
I may learn to live
And perhaps to love again
With a heart not quite mine
But sufficient none the less.
Limping • Opuss № I