In the black hole at the
centre of a quiet, quiet night,
She stares at the ceiling,
And listens to the blood pumping through her ears,
And listens to the blood pumping through her ears,
And to the odd scrape and
screech that comes from her rusting heart.
Once, it used to beat as
strong as an ox,
And that was in the days
when she was prepared for love and war,
But when no one came to
call,
When no one brought her
flowers,
Her heart began to fade and
rust.
And now she finds a comfort
in the sounds that her heart makes,
At least she gave it a shot with all her smiles and pretty bows,
Although there were time when she’d thought, just maybe,
That
someone would have seen her soul.
But on that morning when she felt the first sharp creak,
She knew then it was all too
late,
And that she would be listening to the rusting
of her heart
Until it was time to sleep.
bobby stevenson 2016
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