So now my heart is dead.
What shall I do with it?
Useful as a paperweight,
Or does it burn when lit?
Perhaps a tasteful lamp
To hang upon the wall?
Or for use as an ashtray
So cinders do not fall.
As broken as it is,
As hollow and empty,
Maybe a coffee filter?
Perhaps a tea cozy?
So now my heart is dead
And nothing comes of it.
A black lump of coal or else
A darkly hardened pit.
These tears upon my face…
When all is done and said…
My heart, destroyed, alone, is…
Perhaps… not quite… so dead…