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“The Evolution of a Broken Heart”



In thy hands, 
I gently placed it

lacking hesitation’s pleas and virtues
‘twas ne’er a time to be uncourageous
plucked somewhere from deep within
my honorable, clean gilded home where
pure intention sat regally spartan
upon her stony throne

In thy hands,
I gently placed it

Like some glistening 
pulmonary metronome 
pushing for LIFE
defibrillating 
bleeding heart beating 
like a drowning tin drum 
detonating 
in time with yours 
swallowed up 
by your Tsunami Oceans 
of sick suffocating bad love,
captive of your 
rattling cages of madness,
twisted hidden lies, 
monsters defecating 
over innocence, 
vile and bitter rages
Black Dog Barking feral, 
never ending sadness, 
the war rages
and it rages
 
In thy hands,
it stopped 

in strangled default stages
‘twas the small heart 
next to mine 
I saved first
pushed to safety 
through the 
light wielding cracks and
freedom spaces
swam away like a tadpole 
up for air and refined graces
Our story 
now a flock of dark murderous ravens  
fleeing across the black book's pages
she forgot the Golden Chord 
in her mouth and dropped it -
you betrayed us
 
In thy hands,
I gently placed it

In thy hands, 
you squeezed its life blood
as if wringing the neck of 
a worn laundry rag
sucked out the remnant of a soul
in staggered stages,
its torn mind, ripped dry and cold 
it snapped like a brittle twig
like a yolkless egg cracked open
stopped dead and useless 
the pieces lost and broken
floated away dissolving invisible 
a transitory homeless ghost 
now walking Purgatory’s halls 
miserable and defeated
 
In the mirror 
what reflection 
is there left?

A Ghost holding a hidden key, 
a Golden Chord and 
ever shining Crucifix, 
will wait and never rest


(Lovejoy-Burton/Mar 2018)




"Get out of My House" / Kate Bush
https://youtu.be/_uHUUwgGW5c




“It is more than likely 
I will never leave your side, 
I will remain a Ghost 
to haunt your conscience forever”
(Anonymous)

 


“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm 
that keeps changing directions. 
You change direction 
but the sandstorm chases you. 
You turn again, but the storm adjusts. 
Over and over you play this out, 
like some ominous dance with death 
just before dawn. Why? 
Because this storm 
isn't something that blew in from far away, 
something that has nothing to do with you. 
This storm is you. Something inside of you. 
So all you can do is give in to it, 
step right inside the storm, 
closing your eyes and plugging up your ears 
so the sand doesn't get in, 
and walk through it, step by step. 
There's no sun there, no moon, 
no direction, no sense of time. 
Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky 
like pulverized bones. 
That's the kind of sandstorm 
you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it 
through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. 
No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, 
make no mistake about it: 
it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. 
People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. 
Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, 
your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember 
how you made it through, how you managed to survive. 
You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. 
But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm 
you won't be the same person who walked in. 
That's what this storm's all about.” 
(Huraki Murakami, "Kafka on the Shore")

 


Definintion of SPARTAN:
A native or inhabitant of ancient Sparta
A person of great courage and self-discipline
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