My heart
a silent forest burning
ancient trees, now grown
crooked and sagging with pain.

This throbbing pain,
this open, bleeding wound
pierces the beat of the heart,
overshadowing her attempts at life,
discolors the red that bleeds
in desperate love of me.

This pain kills, cripples, devours.

This death, this slow parching,
the pebbles in the coat, weighing down,
wondering lost and absent,
in search of the nearest body of water.

Bleakness wrapped in sorrow filled grief.

Survival is not a protest,
nor triumph,
but the automated,
life machine
of an already corpse.

Hawzhin Azeez

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