A poet’s heart for all the world to read
reminds me why I wrote of slow decay.
And when she cuts me, why do I not bleed?
Because my blood, my life, has dripped away.
My heartbeat only pumps discouragement
through every vein, to every last extreme,
a heavy sludge that slows my will’s intent
and keeps me from possession of my dream.
She writes with hands that touched my hands, my face,
that felt my heartbeat warm and quick and light.
But every word composed in this new place
and shared while I am shuffled out of sight
reminds me why I wrote of slow decay
and how my life, my love, has dripped away.

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