A Poet’s Heart

This blooming heart is
a chamber of confessions
pumping pale blue ink.

Neither platonic nor romantic
filling the valves with vacillations
of an adolescent.

Oxygenated with petty obsessions
And pauses and silences.

Great gazer of white sheets
hopeful of moving his frozen musings.

Skipping many beats
missing the many perceptions of master’s soul.

The high tides of low noon writing
washed ashore with his thick blood.

The hopeful heart is cruel enough to the paper
not brave enough to stare at his restive pages.

A vessel of a silent soul
with nerves of steel
And a hunch of a fool.

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