“In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, ‘Is it good, friend?’
It is bitter — bitter,’ he answered,
But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
Wither goes the sounds from within?
The moans, the cries, the agony,
Felt once, but betrayed forevermore,
Like the death of a dream
Once brought back to life,
But left more dead than alive in its wake.
The scars run deeper than the surface tells,
For they eat the will from the inside,
Tearing apart the flesh of the soul
Leaving a carcass behind for the vultures,
Always circling high above the desert sand,
Waiting for the faintest trace of decay.
It is bitter, these words hanging in the air,
Like wings cut off in dark despair,
For all false hopes are found out someday,
Strangling the ties that are thrown away,
No matter how hard the heart strives to speak,
Silence is all that the listener seeks.
Twisting in the sand like a wired mouse,
Dripping on the page, ink as black as coal,
The raven cries, far in the distance, a warning,
To save the pieces of a shattering heart,
But the warning is lost in translation,
And the heart is roasted over an open flame.
This bitterness seeps into the very flesh,
Like powdered tablets to numb the pain,
It is drunk down quickly, but the taste lingers,
Of this heart so beat and broken,
And this flavor has become an addiction,
So strong, it is all that keeps me alive.