dead heart (18/3/22)


emerging from a hint of mist the grist of night won’t be missed, light unseemly struggling to life, breathing like it’s wary of the air wearing its suspicion with a sense of pride as though every twitch, every flinch is a strain, waking as it has too and not because it wants too… where is choice when you need it……


the dead heart acts
without remorse,
and takes its pleasure by force…..

© 2022 robert greig

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