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