Voice of the Heart
I watch the glow of my joint burn out
As I find a new way of dreaming
Beneath the stairs.
I keep the jester’s hand on the end of a chain
Around my neck
And strangle the promises made by the heavens
And I the buffoon bought.
Now I just stare outside the window
Through the eyes of a cold
as ghosts
Drift down river
Then are gone.
Maybe it was the Nyquil
Somewhere down the avenue of memories
Where SROs still stand
one can hear
!
!
!
Shouted from a window.
Just goes to show that love is a speckled egg
That doesn’t hatch angels or devils
But ordinary voices
Of unordinary men
Or women.
It’s the voice of the
Naked heart.
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