Evening Star Poem by Mark Heathcote

Lover, my love, my heart is but a punctured boat.
I have somehow managed to sail.
Drop anchor almost single-handedly towards a distant shore.
It has rested in the moonlight, dreaming these many nights.
I was asking, when will it sink further into this eternal darkness?
When will it vanish? Completely unheard of and unknown,
It has rested in the moonlight, dreaming of fatalistic pleasures.
In reflection, it's an angelic face.
When the sun shone sweetly and burned like Spanish gold,
It was not just grief in the shadows that turned joyous.
It was a resurrection of sorts, even for me.
It was her lulling incense spiralling, burning heavenly.
But even now, my heart keeps slipping back, restless.
I was pulled into that black, sucking mud and the kelp reeds.
Reeds that sang of death and mud that smelled of tar and blood.
This love of mine was as wan as a pale moon.
She freed my anchor and pushed me far offshore.
I'd venture she scuttled my boat long before she boarded.
She broke my heart and punctured my boat.
I guess it was a long time before I or she were even born.
And when I die, I will depart and meet her suffused, smiling face.
Not in the moonlight, but in sunlight,
I'll burn, sail, and sink like an evening star.