In the black hole at the centre of a quiet, quiet night,
She stares at the ceiling,
And listens to the blood pumping through her ears,
And to the odd scrape and screech that comes from her rusting heart.
Once, it used to beat as strong as an ox,
And that was in the days when she was prepared for love and war,
But when no one came to call,
When no one brought her flowers,
Her heart began to fade and rust.
And now she finds a comfort in the sounds that her heart makes,
At least she gave it a shot with all her smiles and pretty bows,
Although there were time when she’d thought, just maybe,
That someone would have seen her soul.
But on that morning when she felt the first sharp creak,
She knew then it was all too late,
And that she would be listening to the rusting of her heart
Until it was time to sleep.
bobby stevenson 2016