Let me fall back into your heart,
And lie besides you
On this purple, diamond sea.

Let me unpeel your skin from your bones
And find again the love within you,
Running blue against your wrists.

Let me still visit like an old friend,
There to protect you
From those burning sienna skies.

Let me take from you the bottle, the dagger too,
For I will not let you
Lose yourself on these frothy, hemlock waves.

Let me, though I am dead, still beat in your heart,
For I will not leave you,
Until you too are ready depart.

The morning smelt like one of those lost summers,
those bright mornings I remember as a child
before I understood beauty.
It tasted like the cool milk I’d sipped on the cusp of a promising day,
when the stern rebukes of my father could not dim
the power of the blue sky to lift my spirits.
Sadness barely grazed my knees as I walked on the dewy grass
for everything was a masterpiece I'd never examined properly.
The air was warm and golden,
and I was the knight or the lost hero and the afternoon was
set to be filled with imagination and friendships
that I clasped so dear.
But we were sitting on the wall of the Garden of Eden,
looking in and drinking in its beauty, but knowing,
behind us that a dark fiend lurked,
yet never minding to turn around to look properly.
It was when who we were was not quite tangible,
when the light softened the whirling confusion of growing and forming
and we could smile and laugh
and think never mind tomorrow, it's today.
Yes, for a moment, the morning smelt like a lost summer,
so quickly fleeting.

Your soul was always isolated from
the world around you—from the very beginning. Time
alone was something you valued (as should we all)
but your isolation took on many forms—many
hungry shadows looming over you at all times.

A collision of iron and steel left you
immobile, and by the standards expected of
women, useless: your womb would never swell,
and you would never experience the pain of
bringing a child into this cruel world.

The fractures
and the wounds healed, but you
never recovered.

In the face of impossibility, you still
tried in desperation; leaving you in cold
unfamiliar hospital rooms, where all you
can see is an alien landscape; where all you
can think about is the reasons you are  here,
and the reasons your baby will never be.

It is a pain in your heart that leaves you gutted
like the iron handrail that embedded itself
through your ******. The bed is soaked
with your tears and your blood; it is the pain
of knowing that you will never hold a baby
who sees you as God; you will never experience
the love of a child, glowing with innocence.

Skin as pale as lilies,
     now livid with interrupted bloom.
Bruises as dark as that Irish lake,
     five of them, of a brutish nightshade hue.
Body as limp as the towel they used to rub you warm to no avail,
     dotted over with dirt, your shirt torn through.
Eyes as vacant as the echo in a tomb,
     once blue before, now glazed over with vitreous dew.
Oh Clerval, how I have forsaken you.

•Copyright 1993-2014 snipet by EPH
E. Patrick Heeney from pg. 1 of 2
CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN?  CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
DON'T WAIT UNTIL YOU BURN.

You just **** on a can to get your high
and do odd things until you die
first it was snorting, then you tried base;
you knew it was risky when you burnt up your face.

After Henry Taylor*

On a peaceful night just as the stars had
risen and the chilled dew was beginning
to form on the grass, a set of steel tracks
resting atop an ordinary hill
began to hum with warm vibrations as

a steam-powered engine came towards them,  
pulling along an assortment of goods,
it came fast and came loud, breaking all of
the solitude by the hill, but perhaps
it was going too fast or maybe the
tracks were a little wet or it may be
that the train simply wanted to jump, but

just as it reached the turn atop the hill,
it leaned off its path and like a rubber
band; the rest followed, throwing to the air
everything held inside, tumbling down
the hill, splashing through the water droplets

until finally coming to a rest
at the bottom, where splintered lumber and
distorted steel had torn up earth to show
a mound of fresh dirt, riddled with gravel
and twigs, the hill became quiet once more,
just as the train whispered its final gasp
and the dew began to form on its wheels.