Absence makes the heart grow crazy
beating inside a hollow chest—pounding
like wolves on a plain of solitude.
Time dies, starts again and dies—
dragging its broken springs behind.
The twinkling of glass breaks all around.
The night passes in games of Gin Rummy
with long stretching hours. Winning,
of course. There shall be pain for sure
as light lingers and goes on like mad
ticking. Sands add to the pile and
the Sun labors across the sky, drying
the heart that is almost empty.
Ripping it out each night,
it is full again in the morning.
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