With metal shavings, splinters in my veins,

my heart cuts me to pieces with every new betrayal,

though we all know better by now,

shamelessly dive in; as though one of us might precipitate from there and become The Titanic,

then sail across an ocean just to find the bottom again,

what an irony casket indeed,

these frigid depths like witches fingers on my throat,

throttled and cast aside, like so many lovers spurned,

and this melancholy, this wander henceforth spirit,

his name is Baptist, and he knows the waters,

holds them back in futility, aware at once that the day is Ground Hog’s,

cheery eyed and hopeful, less confident, more bashful,

biding time till heartbreak,

icicle his keepsake,

wounded beast,

last and least,

prays release,




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