I can feel the moon filling 

rising in my chest, 
my throat 

a grip:
a commanding brand
blinding and hot
pressing down on my chest 
while my legs buck
on an operating table somewhere
then sated
by the cooling hiss 
of oxygen
(or at least
that's what they told me 
it was) 

"You're not yourself, Paul" 
a much shorter name than mine
and a bone saw plain
some numbing tune by th...

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If you asked

what my heart

consisted

of.

I would say;

half is pain.

Other half?

Love.

If you said

love was dead,

valueless

time.

Clear your head,

break the shell.

Reveal your

mind.

It's called pain,

caused by words.

Dismantles

soul.

Cant blame it,

bred to kill.

Grimmest of

goals.

Sad but true,

both the halves

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