Why is it that the heavy heart
Never slows down, despite my willing it?
Why does that indefinable, infinitesimal
Infernal lump in my throat still allow me to breathe?
Why, even when I drown in self inflicted silence,
Do words impinge, float, escape, and express themselves?
Even as my heart, my soul curl themselves back
Into the fetal form, closing themselves
Turning inward, why do I still go on
And move, and find myself open
Why cannot I let that period define
And close a labouring life?
Curl my whole self, tightly
Airlessly, compacting myself
Implode, to that zing.
Pulling the plug, within.
26 April, 2012