What Little Is Left Poem by Mark Heathcote

My hips feel like they've partially ripped apart
I've got no organ that doesn't ache or whine
I've sold my body and mind, what little is left
I promised it all to you, but what do you do,
Bent over tying a brogue leather tan shoe
You tell me I'm better off alone
You best go, before I take these, here shoes off again
And it gets unwholesomely dark.

My eyes are sore and red, and I'm questioning
If I'm not better off dead, brown bead
If this be another man, another lover, kicks me out of bed
Kicks me in the head; my heart will break
I'm not a relic or 'heroic' I'm not a heroine,
Who suffers increasingly from mute deafness?
Maybe like Beethoven, I've gone increasingly deaf
From making my music too divine...all the time.

My heart is a heavy lead weight
It's got no buoyancy anymore it isn't a snow-capped mountain
Sorry, but I can't make any more false turns, descents,
Downward turns, not even for a babe like you.
Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't meant
Oh, love is such a rat race
And if I spend any more time in the dark
I'll contract Scurvy and forget there are other stars.

Oh, my soul wants to travel alone
Jettisoned like a flintstone bursting into fire
I want to recoil and be the last instrument of death
No man can resist; I only want to make music
That haunts and follows you,
Wherever you are sleeping, wherever you are dreaming
Oh, I only want to be consumed by you
I've sold my body and mind, what little time is left
I promise it all to you, and like Beethoven go increasingly deaf
making music too divine to ever end in discord.