Mark Heathcote Poems

Bullets are fired in anger. At the start of a war,  
But frequently, there's no honour in winning anymore.
Hospitals are on fire. The injured are flung onto the street.
Without running water, indeed, life is bittersweet.
...

His flesh is real and striped asunder.
Angels looked ashen and sombre.
Christ, collapses-dejected and bleeding.
Body exhausted, limply conceding.
...

I love you,
Oh, the sound of the sea,
The sun on my skin,
Oh, I love you, my sweet Serendipity.
...

I've been over a rainbow with you.
I've been to the moon in a refined shadow.
Longing to follow you out of a crater
And walk where the sun can't penetrate.
...

What is the best-kept secret you've never told?
Is it something good or something bad?
Honestly, you can tell me and lay all your cards down.
I won't knock you off your pedestal, your crown.
...

I want to endure like a stone.
And become love-worn smooth.
But all this takes time and patience.
It takes years of constant pain, sorrow,
...

Lines have been dramatized and dramatically drawn;
the terminuses of a migrating flock of birds have been mapped;
and I have undergone a pensive long walk.
In the struggle to become a better version of myself,
...

Darling, don't be so combative; that's all I ask.
Loving you at times is a fruitless task.
Nevertheless, I love the bones of you.
Warts and all, that's all I can say.
...

You have to fake it until you make it.
All the greats do say.
And cherish all your mishaps and mistakes along the way.
Like loveless orphans and give them some missing hope.
...

Destination unknown, seated in a glass bus shelter,
where opposites amalgamate and become whole,
merging one into another like sister and brother;
bumper to bumper,
...