The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter


The heart is a lonely hunter,
in the wee hours of mourn,
its soul is a scout
always searching,
for the sweet meet of love.

Each heart's endless litany
of lub, dub, lub, dub,
much like some ancient war drum
echoes hollow in an empty bed.

One can hear their own swallow
as tears are digested
on the corner of Third and forlorn
in a small apartment for one.

The heart needs the fullness
of another's catch,
the shared cacophony
of stereo beats pressed tight
against taut skin.

So it sits like a vacant lodge
welcoming other hearts
who are on the prowl.

But the path to it is treacherous,
for it has set itself up for a fall,
and it has taken

many wrong trails before.

Nevertheless it is open season,
for any and all dears.

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