Black hearts, black hearts,
right here for all to recognize
a multitude of capillaries filled with sludge
delivering to crucial organs,
a crucial reminder of
trauma of the emotional and the physical,
a black list et al.
Black and just not like blood,
black sludge
infused in the lone typist
in an antique room
with fragrant memories of would-be lovers whom
smell of shampoos, cologne, and Shea butters.
Something lost, something won,
a game of strawberry-cheesecake-love,
lost glove,
prying eyes above,
an evil dream consisting of
a closet of death,
A black heart, a black heart
right here of all to recognize
until the sky is pregnant with rain
and these dark moods
are cleansed with flood.


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