Keyote Wolf is publishing here for the first time.

Junkyard Heart
By Keyote Wolf

Listening to you speak, I’m caught in the net of how I should feel,
A storm should cut through my veins and leave me
All thunder rumbling, heart: hot; all-a-boil,
But I only feel the void of emptiness
As you tongue tries to turn whip,
Then razor, then noose.
There is only an emptiness to these views.
You, who might tie a noose at the end of your tongue
To hold onto a word;
Have spoken nothingness into the aching belly of the day.
Does it matter about whose words fall;
Knowing, we are etching out
Humanity, spitting out skin and bones
Without chewing, first, the heart?
I’m all junkyard hour; fearful and
Steeling myself against the shake.
Your eyes speak dead-end streets,
Clashes, and collisions,
Even the smallest moment of violence is
Always someone’s final eclipse;
A moment, is a life cut,
Like: a throat, an artery, an eye, a heart.
There is no response to give,
As I cast my eyes, like dice away,
I have learned how these punches roll; and have learned
To move through the hits.
There is nothing to add
To this field of hollowness;
There is only moving through
The waves’ next crash,
Holding on
To the heart of silence.