wounds

i find within my chest a hole where flesh once was
still fresh, the blood tells as much
yet inorganic in its composition

the pain of time itself corrupting:
love letters carried via wire
action, incapacitated.
flowers grow in the cracks between the tiles

this mass of flesh taken flight,
the world delighting in its own misfortune,
yelling in circles,
nothing will be done.

the hole gains mass as it gets larger
tomorrow's promise cracks and shatters:
today eternal, suspended dust,
the wound bleeds out once more.

i weep for the loss of what was never had.