Sometimes when I hear certain
Songs
I see you there,
Singing behind them.

I might seem a bit mystic but I’m good at heart

A small garden rakes over my eyes and a head digging in and scrapping away

She says,

My heart is like a cleft pomegranate
Bleeding crimson red,
And dripping every seed on the ground
It’s ripe and over-full,

My dissatisfied heart,
My heart it is more human than I,
More than life itself

Often
My heart cries but my eyes are dry,


And behold my friend
This is what I call my brief tragedy of flesh
Tragedy of life

My very demise