My Heart
My Heart, my Heart,
why have you not deserted me?
Even though my thoughts sicken me
everyday.
My own heart is a dove in a cauldron,
it sinks deep within a mind
that slyly impersonates being,
yet it is but a shadow on a glass wall.
That mind turns to grab hold
of every ghost,
to look, to need, to build a fantasy
out of clouds.
My Heart, my Heart why do you stay?
Why do I call to you like this
with a small child's voice?
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