Yellow Heart
This morning I wrote a poem
about a yellow heart
pining for red fusion,
in a desperate attempt
to shake the fruit
that never
falls
And tonight I am alone
without tangerine lips
or the temptation of apple,
carefully watching familiar verses
unravel themselves
and fanatically dance around
like a final punctuation mark
or an overused cliche,
while my hands whittle metaphors
into a quick-witted instrument
sharp enough to scrape
the smeared imagery
off the sidewalk of poem,
Still I am not sorry
the fruit has not
fallen
to kiss my weary head,
it takes an overly cautious yellow
to see the perfect shade of red
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