Damp trickles

down the walls

of my heart

mould seeping through

festering plaster,

gently weaving intricacy,

spots of ink that litter

a darkened ceiling.

How fragile is this,

an empty room,

filled with an odour

of decay or sadness,

what once was-

Open windows,

light thst penetrated the cold,

and gently carressed

the broken edges,

coaxing a steady pulse

that when beckoned

was heard under the

surface of translucent skin.

Now, cobwebs grow,

like the seeds of a

lingering death,

my death,

or perhaps you doctors

are mistaken

and you cannot recognize the absense 

of feeling, or

the stillness of forboding heart.