Flesh and Bone

If hearts can truly be broken,
mine would be in a million pieces
scattered on this grey floor
to be swept every day by the cleaning lady
who should only be making pop corn.

But I am flesh and bone,
and the piece of meat that beats
inside of me seventy-six times a minute
will never stop even when it has been
beaten many times over and its pieces
scattered in the ashes of cigarettes.

When will all the nights of dreaming end
and the mornings of waking up to prayer?
Hoping that the coming afternoon will
be of a different hue to the one before.
Can I survive tomorrow and the days after?
Can my heart not beat any more as if
it were made of glass or stone and
just be broken in a billion pieces
and swept away from this grey floor?

No more.

But I am flesh and bone,
and the piece of meat that beats
inside of me ninety-four times a minute
will not ever stop until all the nights
of seeing you in my dreams are gone
and no more prayers are left to be said
except the ones that will lay me to rest
as they scatter my ashes everywhere
but on this grey floor.