THIS FERAL HEART

I wake in the morning

and head from the paper,

look over my shoulder

the clock isn’t stable.

Time’s moving slow,

But my soul knows its late;

And these hearts that we own,

Man, they’re always at stake.

You and I,

we are pastime doodles

scattered on a junked canvas.

Picked up by chance,

a couple of heartsick gypsies.

I see those unsullied reflexes,

dancing towards my heart;

and I can’t help but shed to pardon

in exchange for another taste of possibility.

And maybe I’m a fool

for stringing our wrongs together,

praying for a right in this sham of bond.

You may be a menace to my heart,

but I’m gambling.

And every encounter since then has become

a lump in my throat, a blade to the wrist,

as I’m reminded that you and I will die right there.

We’re just another dream

bound to a time frame and silenced by illness.

You are blank slots in my life’s album

that I dare not fill.

I am tiny steps pacing by the window,

Loyal to a no-show.

We never did get the chance did we, love?

Danced with your eyes a handful of time,

And as I brave your loss for one last time,

that is when I overcame the guilt that comes

with choosing your own happiness.

I chose you.

I chose love.

Here is where it loses,

everytime - This feral heart.