He limps along the streets
a heartless man.
a being less than hope.
a liar to himself, the mineral of man.
His liver spotted hands are wrapped
around a mug of tepid coffee,
and with sour lips he sips a sense
of life to rotting limbs.
Deep inside his folds
of chest remains the ice,
a cavity, a heartbeat echo with
warmth that’s stolen by the past.
She was the summer that grew cold;
when with his heartbeat fists
he declared an ownership
that wasn’t his to take.
She left on broken wings and maybe
hides above behind the blinds,
and while he is freezing
she claimed his heart for warmth.
Today Lilian hosts Poetics at dVerse, and want us to write poetry based on hearts… in any way you like (and you can write a wonderful Valentine poem if you like)
February 14, 2017