Dead Heart

There was no honey when I reached,

Just a little reminder of its smell,

There were no fair promises,

But filthy truths and bare wounds,

Wounds covered with only air,

A foul and false air,

I found it easier to live,

To sleep beside a silent beast,

A beast behind his blood.

Only behind his blood.

He was clown in expensive attires,

A gentleman who didn’t know what gentle meant,

No anger, fiery boiling blood,

Just cold icy feet and sweaty hands,

A little laugh, when on the peak.

When I started living double,

Laughing double,

Raw and virgin, used and forgotten,

Nothing but taken to the dead heart.


When I wanted to write you,

Works at hand were plenty,

And you invaded them but hopelessly;

The bitten thumb nail,

Irregular near the middle,

Catches my eye and fixes my thought,

On the thoughts flowing in sweety dream,

Day dreaming I do in day, 

And in evening and before I sleep,

For that is where I find you,

Playing in my absence with looks

That will steal.
No more stealthy kisses,

No more discreet fondling,

No more hiding hearts, inside the little jewellery box,

Come face to face and tell the world,

Where your sweet heart’s name is printed,

On the cover of flesh, that is called mortal heart,

Where a black colourful sign shines,

Show me at least, if not the sign,

But the watery eyes.