RIP

The Beating Thing

The Beating Thing

I grip the dripping thing

Whose beating is dragging

Whose beating is flagging

And it is ripping in my grip

And slipping...

Every beat is loud as thunder

And drenches the empty chest I have plundered

It grows still though the beating thing is ill

And the red whispers the man has been killed

And the breath falls to a halt when the beating finds a fault...

Yet the dripping thing in my hand

Turns to dust and turns to sand

And I look upon the emotionless man

Who feeds on pride and pretends to stand...

And still I feel the blood of his heart

The beating that stopped in cooling depart

8.23.2012