The Rolling Heart

My heart has hit the floor and it’s rolling,
violent waves inside moving forward and back,
my little dread filled ocean of red.

It is sinking within itself over and over,
reaching the bottom to float to the top,
to sink again while it escapes me.

If only it would break but for now it just cracks,
hair line fractures on its cold dead walls,
mapping its way over its veins.

Wishing it would just come home and flutter,
to quiver with excitement once more,
tickled from below by butterflies.

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Warehouse of Flowers

Dying up here
near the halogen lights,
floor to ceiling,
wholesale sentiment
and gestures.

Raining dry petals,
grey floor littered
with long dead colour,
vibrancy lost in efficiency.

Darkness killing the buds,
lilting up here,
left till last
or forgotten
altogether.