Mortally-Wounded Poem by Mark Heathcote

It feels as though my heart has been mortally wounded.
It feels like a blank piece of A4 paper wanting to sing.
But instead of fighting writer's block, it's-somehow-been
stapled to a coffin lid in the back of a hearse; and-what's-worse,
there's not a soul around who cares where I'm blowing,
where I'm going. My heart sometimes might peep like a sun
from the dark yonder, and instead of assembling thunder,
it might glow like a sunflower. Birds might come down
from a higher thermal just-to-play. Like skylarks
with nothing better to do than fan the flames-of-a rainbow,
each raindrop of water is a regal painting of art.

Truth or dare, my heart knows better than to quit or cry.
So it just goes on beating alone, hoping one day
not to feel so alone.
At times it's a warzone just speaking
to those-who-are-meant-to-be kith and kin. But still, you've
got to love them What else can you do,
retreating from bombs - overhead shadows follow you
no matter, how-hard-you-smile and a little rain
are always predicted, turning to snow and ice.
A heart can only take so much hurt or love.

Seams may be bursting with gold, but you are
drinking from a poisonous well, the devil's cup
and you're invisible to all not living through this hell
might-as-well-wish to die than live another day,
might as well carry-on-till like flotsam
you-find-another shore and be
whittle into something far better for sure.
But you choose to stay and fight this dark
with every beat of your heart. You choose-just-to keep
soldiering on with another thousand orphans,
come what may? They're family now,
and to all of them, you belong.