Florence Devereux
Hearts Cruel Trick
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