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