Torn

Limbs of a dismembered poet
Buried between pages of life
Suffocating repetitious bleeding hearts
With dusty metaphors of yesterday

Emotions gather like dirty rags
Stagnant memories slowly eroding
Awakened suddenly by death
Death found in the birth of truth

Though the poet seems tattered and strewn about
When the book is closed
Pages become whole
Life and limb intact

A fond respect is found
For the life that passed through your fingers
And the one waiting
A fair lily
Blossoming amidst the wreckage