by Chris Butler
My heart is hardened, like a diamond,
hovering over my dark charcoal soul,
yet it cannot be tenderized again
deep in my motherland’s bottomless holes.
My heart is high strung as an ornament,
or a fragile eggshell cracking on a tree,
devalued by its cheap sentiment
and sifted into shards of confetti.
My heart is melted and poured into molds,
forming a goddess’s perfect image,
yet temperate to temperatures cold
it’s disfigured in a macabre visage.
My heart cannot stop the irregular
rhythms of iambic pentameter.
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