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The flu has a heart made of ice scratches
Maybe they are words that tell your story
Your story concerning the flu
But you are too sick to put it all together
The lines mingle and your head grows hot
you remember every cut and scratch of your life
You relive them in your throat
Upon your pulsing bed
Pulsing to the rhythm of
An ice scratch heart
You are drifting in and out of child hood
Fresh possibilities give way to
misery and death watches
Thump thump thump
Every bone in your world breaks and mends itself in the time between the thumps
You would call yourself a prisoner to it
But you never stay anywhere long enough to be one
You are a hobo, a beggar, a child,  a visionary
Your ball and chain has wings
Is it wrong to enjoy the ride
Would you rather be dead
No no no


About wherearetheheros

just someone my mother might know

2 responses »

  1. I like this . . .but if you currently have the flu, I don’t like that one bit! Praying, just in case!


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