The dead heart

Beauty is found to be ugly.
Grease-yellow as plastic plates.
Gases stuck with breath.
A hollow torso withering
and unrequited.
With the coming of darkness,
a dog howls to the sky.
A signal of love retained –
under the blankets
and in the temples.
A passion impaled on any flesh,
again and again.
And hope rises from the
mountains to the roadside.
No clenched fist,
just prouder to the end.

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