Florence Devereux

Hearts Cruel


The ferocious appetite

that swarms and threads behind

Is the breath of the core Sun

That sneaks beside the waking of your mind

Finding hand to glove, to snug fit

What about the loss of your standards?

Hearts cruel trick

Conflicts dressed up slick

Gloss coated and molasse drenched

The pill of limitation

Was made upon the tree

Of desperation

In the terminal

On the last remaining chair

I saw a woman crying

Not even a dog stood to even stare

The wind of the core sun

It bleaches, the grot

That the masters all forgot

Was the seed of more

More rain

More rain

The rocks they quiver yet stay the same

Waiting was always my losing game