Conspiracy
Stinging sensations dancing across my staring globes.
Unable to blink.
The deep brown of the mud puddle
may reflect my aching heart,
oozing pain,
but I can’t see.
I don’t know.
A lead weight thumping away
longs to be free of its prison.
Why does it feel so heavy?
Why does it seem so full?
As if all the sorrow in a 5’4 frame
could be centered in that one little organ.
What is a heart
that it should wish to fly like a bird?
No,
leave soaring to the winged, freedom
to those who are free,
enrichment to the rich and give
the pitiful their pity,
nothing more.
A treacherous thing, this heart:
it does its job with a grumble and a sigh-
but conspires to drown the townsfolk
in their beds.
For it has some strange connection with the holes
in the dikes
that keep the ocean,
keep emotion,
tucked away.
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