The sterling stream that lines my sorrows
is never within stone's throw.
How many boulders away are you, my darling?
I yearn for you to grind my heart once more.
I need you to clip it's thoughtless wings,
for they're drooping and defeated by their lasting migration.
My heart is elephantine and my wings are hopeless
and they're abusing all of me for what is believably my eternity.
My heart is dehydrated and cotton-mouthed,
It's tongue can not satisfy, for it's fangs are before it,
serrated by the bloodshed on our floor.
I could water my floral heart,
if someone put the watering-can in my hand,
but it doesn't know how to tread tears anymore anyway.
I am not satisfied.
Nor, can I satisfy
anymore.
I'm simply coasting through shapes and figures
to pass this paused time.
I have become a clown
that does not understand mortification any longer.
It's feelings have become hidden under a white face and red lips.
My tower of prospect has been thrown to the ground,
landing where my body was planted, stuck asleep.
They all say I deserve better.
I've been searching for better,
but it broke my wings and it broke my heart
and planted me at my own crime scene
screwing me.