Phantom heart

A treacherous shot fired in the night: reverberating in my cochlea,

filling my eye with the most vivid dreams, painting the walls crimson; yet,

Beating softly still my organic clock,

too obstinately bleating yet for a phantom heart,

too unyielding a burden for the soul to lift,

my lamb’s essence cries for another life, in the ringing silence,

in the ubiquitous stillness, and finds the unwelcoming embrace of dispassion.


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