Glass Heart

The blood runs through my veins so slow,

It decays and rots my heart,

My head is faltering too, so dead;

And I cannot think of words.

 

Yet I write – oh I must, I know!

If I didn’t, I would break,

And then the words would spill from my body

And scatter upon the floor.

 

My last release in this world,

Since running cannot cut it.

And I wish to find some solace in this,

But I’m not sure if it works.

 

It still hurts.

Does that mean I felt it,

Because it still hurts?

 

Yet my mind feels shattered;

I cannot think,

Slow, slow my thoughts sluggishly go.

 

My heart is broken, ruptured like glass,

Melting as icicles to the ground.

 

 

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