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Bankrupt Heart

By Wil C. Fry, Dec. 7, 1997, 12:00

Copyright © 1997 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.


Bottle clenched tightly in one fist,
Cool condensation forming on the outside
Time slowly ticking on the other wrist
Hot passion burning on the inside
What is the point in chasing empty dreams?
When emptiness can be found right here at home?
The dream is more substantial, or so it seems
And the chase invigorates more than a lonely roam
Wilderness inside me, confusion on the prowl
Hopelessness all around, later is worse than now
Finally, after endless searching, what I want is what I need
But either way I have only salty tears on which to feed

What happens when the eyes are dry?
When I have no more strength to cry?
What happens when it is useless to try?
When the bankrupt heart agrees to die?

Fragile feelings still abound, the violated pieces on the ground
Vile memories submerge me again; this time will I drown?
The pleasant times are only an illusion for fools
Giving false relief from the darkening desert pools
Which are tears, rivulets of bloody excretion falling
Thirsty for love, crying for affection, and crawling
I collapse, Heaving, Fighting, and Straining
Sensing the true Lifesource slowly draining
At last, the absurd expectation of Love begins to fade
“Hey, anybody got a decent, loving heart for trade?”

What happens when the eyes are dry?
When I have no more strength to cry?
What happens when it is useless to try?
When the bankrupt heart agrees to die?




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