Daily Playing Empty Tin Soldiers Poem by Mark Heathcote

Sunken eyes heavy heart, until I wither
Whatever happens to me, this isn't living
Surely to god, someone has to be kidding
And my heart it's just an open fissure.

When do I depart, I've waited so, so long
I'm now going mad in this eternal dark
Won't someone point the way back ere-long
For whatever my soul decides is its matriarch.

For whatever my soul believes to be its home
Cradle-wraps me again and makes strong
Make me stubborn as a mule hereon
And unearth my soul from this catacomb.

My heart what makes you, why do you breathe
Don't you sense I'm a little more than deflated?
I've got no time for friends, family or neighbours
Daily playing empty tin soldiers I've been infiltrated.