Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most. We that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long... (Shakespeare says).

HEART...

Like a snake, my heart has shed its skin.
I hold it there in my hand,
full of honey and wounds.

The thoughts that nested in your folds,
where are they now?
Where the roses that perfumed both
Jesus Christ and Satan ?

Poor wrapper that damped my fantastical star,
parchment gray and mourn ful
of what I loved once but love no more ! Or ?

I see fetal sciences in you, mummified poems
and bones of my romantic secrets and
old innocence.

Shall I hang you on the wall of my
emotional museum, beside my dark,
chill,
sleeping irises of my evil ?

Or shall I spread you over the pines
--- suffering book of my love ---
so you can learn about the song
the nightingale offers the dawn ?

But,
the light is God descending,
and the sun
the chink it filters through...

Happy days, or ?