My heart is like a big, fat, ripe pomegranate. Juicy, yet stale pieces of it fall off with every beat and every impulse of every common day, until nothing but a clean meaningless white crust of impressions remains. It’s an outward silence twisted inside into a rhythmic piñata of raw meat and regrets.
My heart is also an hourglass. Not because it is counting my life backwards. But because it is churning all my possible existences, all my potential me’s through a pulsating funnel of contradictions. With every beat my heart splits me sideways, shrugging off every meaningful me and rounding up this shattered self one grain of “nothing” at a time.
My heart is playing hop-scotch . And with every hop juice and sand mingle. And it reminds of blood, but it tastes rotten and ashen and rough. And I pray on that pebble to choke and trip my heart into another dream, where sandstorms rule the land of pomegrante trees.