I found today in a second hand store
a book on a life lived before
and I flipped through the pages
with an eye for detail
and a bag full of rusty old coins.
The edges were worn,
the cover was torn,
the colour had faded to grey,
and then I remembered
I’d read it before
and already had paid the price.
But I pulled out a penny to pay the man
though he hadn’t yet asked for my thoughts
so the penny, like love, fell to the floor
and I planted a smile on my face.
I went back home and packed up my heart
in a red velvet box with a clasp.
A precaution, you see, in case love should think
I died in a daylight raid.
But I’m still alive walking around
with a brick in the place of my heart
and when I get back it’ll be quite flat
with no blood left to turn about face.
Maybe for now a brick will do
cold and hard and lifeless inside
to keep me sane and grounded in life
until I am no longer me.
The moral, however, of this silly tale
is perhaps of no consequence
when the heart of the matter is under a bed
beating alone with no phone
to dial love up and call it back home
from wherever it went to be free.
That’s it! It’s life that squashes a heart
and bleeds out the life-blood of soul!
No comments:
Post a Comment