The Hurt The Dust Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love, you have painted your fingernails red.
And I excavated the marrow from my bones.
Now, my heart has an open wound to vanquish.
To crawl back to its subterranean grave
I think I'll join Icarus and fly like a jet plane.

A suicide jumper, a hatchling fledged
Love, you have me crawling on a high ledge.
Twenty floors up, too fearful to look down.
I guess it could have been me fighting.
For Fathers for Justice; melting from the sun.

But I learned to step back and read some books.
Dream again and shake off the hurtful dust.
And rid my heart of its emptiness and hate.
You crushed me like a bug and called the world
To fumigate my existence from the sidewalk,

But I suppose I'll never get over you.
There's a better chance; that cow
It jumps over the moon more than I am getting over you.
I guess it was something Icarus always knew.
When eagerly trying to fly with the doves in the sky.