Heart

A love poem? Hardly.

My heart is the storm.
The pyrotechnics or lashing and receiving
Will foul the fountain, quill break the books
Or douse it in pyrexia.
My heart is a field of iron
Of cold dead stars that have been pried
And brought to life by caring
By carving and fire pulsed hands.
My heart is home to shouting mouths,
Their abysses left behind filled
With a blood I willingly let escape and
Warm the southern constellations with.
My heart is a clear anaemic rainbow
With fragile caverns and see-saw caverns,
Where I blindingly and bitchily
Saw my enemies in half
With the blade of a unholy Roman goddess.
My heart is gentle cold flax,
The unrolling scent of still unrest
And breaking, shattering wiles.
My heart is a citadel of wishing wells
Where I hide deep inside
Fishing in warm wine
For the rock to swallow and grow.