My antique heart, sometimes, craves love
but discerns to love is to overreact to
loneliness: an easily rectified situation
that the company of a warm bath
and a bottle of white whine
will swirl down the drain.................
My antique heart contemplates its passivity;
it is cracked in its confusion
but to live would be to overreact
so I'll bang by piano keys and cry violently
until my tears become louder than Beethoven.........
To be would be overreacting:
to fly, to make love, to dance,
to sweeten my lips with honey of life
would be overreacting-
my antique hearts utters, drunk and quelled,
suckled on sadness.
Copyright © Rachel Laurie
Email: Rachel Laurie