Hardheart.

My heart
Has not deviated
Though my
Mind
Cannot see the way,
Through deviant indecisive
Cobwebs strung
O’er the entrances
And stealthy passages
Between ventricles –
The violent tremors
Of which
Like harpstrings
Sing of forgotten
Praise;
And each sunrise
And resetting
My mind sets backwards
In time –
This broken-handed clock
Stuck now for
Nearly three years’
Worth of days.
Evidence neatly piled
In damning stacks
Around us both arranged,
Barring our paths
Obscuring our sights –
And still I sense
Like a tunnel-cloud
From the West
Set upon the bay;
But then again
Perhaps it’s just
My own curiosity –
Do you still set
Deadeyed gaze
Towards my tear
Stained ruddy face?

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