Oh woebegone, inflicted heart,
diseased with rancor's poison dart,
imprisoned within a malevolent rib cage,
unyielding, chimerically to resolute rage.
Fluttering, yet here and about,
Incessantly, to let itself out,
what felony was committed it knew not,
what atrocities perpetrated, what battles fought,
Nevertheless, allegiant, it would beat.
Pulsing, incessantly, the same rhythm it would repeat.
Wonder and ponder what kept it going on and on
every second, every day, from night till dawn.
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I wonder.
YOU ARE READING
Wordalmania
Poetry#14 on 8 March 2017 Poetry, Prose. Words bled from the very soul. Musings of an occasional poetess. 'Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. It is an abstract art, and I am, but a mere artist ' - Edgar Allan Poe ©wordalmaniac 2016
