Sound of breaking glass,
As my heart lays dead on the floor.
The hole in my chest is not fresh,
Just never fully healed.
The old familiar numbness spreads,
Illusions shattered as I stumble on.
Most people can't see the hole in me,
Just like they can't see the hole in themselves.
Some holes are half healed,
Others bandaged with alcohol or drugs.
Some are fresh and still bleeding,
Still others are festering with rot.
Yet we all continue to stumble on,
Neither living nor dead.
A zombie apocalypse far more camouflaged,
And not caused by any science or virus.
Just the oldest of illusions,
And the simplest of magics.
The sound of breaking glass,
My heart lay dead on the floor.
12-31-2013It's not my finest work, I know. But hey, those were the words that got written down. As always some lines were forgotten while I was in the process of writing. No clue if those lines would have made it better or worse.