Heartsick

It’s hell on the heart,

and stains on the soul.

Leaves the blood boiled,

and the lungs like coal.

A pit in the stomach,

and a scratch in the throat.

Bloodshot eyes rimmed with red,

your body poisoned without antidote.

It’s a helluva thing, isn’t it?

Feeling it all at once.

That it only takes a single minute

to ruin the work of months.

I’m talking love, of course

Or rather it’s painful loss.

For it takes only the briefest moment

to turn all that’s fair to dross.

And so here one shall sit,

ashes still fresh on the tongue.

Dreams filled with the thought of them

and the life that had begun.

But that loss is now all that remains

and all that time for naught.

And so the heart hurts every day

for what it wishes could be forgot.