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.