To the girls with hearts of smoke and dust-

battlefields of bone and rust-

I know it hurts.

And they say you're stronger for it,

as if heartbreak

is the most interesting thing about you-

but there are no victors in war.

Not even him,

the boy with the golden heart

and cruel hands.

His gilded heart is

peeling at the edges now,

and underneath there is

only stale air

and broken promises.

(they look so pretty there, wrapped in gold.)

but there is no love.

This is no place for a battlefield heart, darling girl.

I just hope you know

that some people

are not worth fighting for.

the sun brushes the horizon.

the horizon shatters into sea.

a dead seagull stretches on the baked sand,

flies warring over the eye sockets,

and in mourning, the world

melts into gold.

she’s so pretty.

the way her hair catches the morning sunlight,

created to be kissed by her skin.

her kisses taste like those pink sunrises the turn you into

something everlasting,

something more than just someone on the beach at 6 am

Granny had a heart of gold, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.

But the dear could not help everyone, no matter how she tried.

Up late one night and couldn’t sleep, she turned the TV on

And caught the end of “Prayer Time,” with Reverend Jesse John.

Granny watched the preacher tell a tale about a friend,

A goodly lad, who knew no bad, and never tried a sin.

He didn’t drink, nor smoke, nor cuss, this good man that he knew,

but only worked, and never shirked a Sunday in the pew.

And how the Reverend Jesse John did work for Granny’s heart,

Expounding tales of woes and jails with histrionic art.

He mined that heart, and dug its gold, and never cared a bleep,

that the check she sent was for her rent, and put her in the street.

But dear old Granny, bless her soul, has found her angel’s wings

all the joys that heaven holds, are in the song she sings

While one mistake became the fate of the Reverend Jesse John

A plain mistake, anyone could make, unwound his holy con.

The reverend never dodged the IRS, nor feared the courts.

He thought himself above all earthly judges torts.

But justice always finds a way, and evil always hangs.

For you see, Granny’s grandson led a bad-ass biker gang!

Vengeance comes in many forms, it always finds the few

who think they are above it, who think that they can do

anything to anyone, impune from all impass,

but The Reverend Jesse John had vengeance shoved right up his...

When little, once, I stayed abroad,

In my Great-Aunt’s abode.

Gold hearted, she kept up the house;

She cooked, and cleaned, and sewed.

When he came home, she greeted him,

And pecked his rugged cheek.

“How was work?” she asked him,

“Same old same” he smiled, meek.

He mumbled words only for her

As he took off his hat,

Then ordered “Whiskey please madame!”

And with a grin he sat.

“You drink too much.”

She grumbled,

Knocking mud off of his boots.

But I got distinct impressions

Those old souls were in cahoots.

Heart of Gold?

Or Heart of

silver, brozen, iron

Or what about melting ice?

Nah?

Then, blood and muscles??

No matter from what your heart made of,

Is it still beating?

That's the thing matters.

As soon as her secret was out, she was never safe;

Chased,

Tracked relentlessly;

A guarded life was better than this

Constant pursuit,

Constant running

Prey

Harrowed by the hunters

Give up, they would say

Let us have our prize

So heavy

Dragged down by its weight,

She didn’t want it anyway

Finally, finally

The end of the road, a yawning chasm

She stands at the lip of the cliff—

Take it!

Greedy hands ripping,

Tearing,

A last, satisfying scream

As she pours everything out

As they take,

Take,

Tearing

Strands of life, dripping blood

Torn from her chest

Death.

She had a heart of gold.