Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Internal Organ

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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