How many times will I break myself against the hard heel of your heart?
Doubts circle around my head like vultures,
Waiting for the snared hare to bleed out,
Blood pools and soaks down deep into the sandy soil,
Nourishing the grasses that return like clockwork every spring.
You laugh and walk away,
A proud pearl among the swine,
Straight through the sacrificial door,
Into the cold, clear night,
Never once stopping to notice the swaying grass
Under the glare of a silent raging moon.
How many times will you bleed me dry,
Just like the juice from an overripe orange?
Discard the peel amongst the weeds,
On some lonely country road.
Treasured only by the parched earth
On a vast prairie as barren as your soul.
B. Christopher Morse is a Park Ranger in the great Pacific Northwest. Most days he can be found rambling around outdoors, cooking, or exercising his passion for writing. Christopher is an Army combat veteran, who began writing seriously as therapy for his PTSD. He is also unreasonably fond of dogs and goats. This is his first published work. You can find him on Twitter as @Rangerbear5.
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