.
Deep in a shallow body,
Built for burials under moon,
The seas rage in tombs of vein,
Dark and salted, wet preserved
In flesh that fades by blistering sun,
A star much higher than old flames,
Mortal and frail in mucks of oft being,
Of earth and breaths traveled alone,
The tell tale heart was rung, hollow,
Swung bold on meat hook splinters
Of femurs soaked with leached lime
For life is a boneyard of wintertimes,
And summer merely drips of dreams,
Bleeding as the belled heart, in tells,
Is beaten into mettle shroud where
Hope only enters from two blinded
Eyes, in the drowning, dried ocean
Body, touch is printed off in dust,
Sorrow bred misinterpretations,
For love is a holey spirit, ghostly
In its wail.  And heart can but
Only bleed so much red until
The last chimes of never.