Sunday, December 6, 2009

Your Heart

Your heart cannot love.
Not that it wouldn't, if it could.
Or that it couldn't, if it would.

You're run by a bloody piston
A four-banger with rusting valves.
Can you feel its ruddy shake?

Aye, well oiled are you machine,
Idling gently 'neath sternum hood.
But an engine cannot love.

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