I see the fiery breath before
it reaches my sensitive drums
that reverberate meaning.
What scorching marks
They leave on my heart.
But a heart is a heart to hurt,
Even if it’s not the target of desire.
Every beat wilts my pumping organ
Until the words become metaphysical.
A battle between truth and feelings,
Even though Truth is known.
But what is, isn’t what’s happening.
Beat; wilt. Wither.
What is, is a crumbling pillar
Whose twin was slowly relocating.
Same weight, one pillar.
A falling piece gains traction
And I am down below.
To catch is to burn,
But to let fall is to lose hope.
Burn? Or hopelessness?
Hopelessness? Or burn?
Catch. Patch. Move on.
Fall. Scorch. Shudder.
Catch. Patch. Move on.
developingpoet 