BEFORE THE HEARTS CUT OUT

Buried in an attic under decades dust.
Smiles that aren't here anymore.
Trapped in phantom photographs.
I've always been one for waking ghosts.
Spiritually secreting grey mornings I've collected over time.
Wars dance on my tongue.
Omega in my eyes.
Murder from my lungs.
Wildly playing as a child,
I accidentally knocked over the mirror.
When I quickly picked it back up,
an old man now stares back from it.
I do remember how comforting youth was.
Each new day was it's own galaxy.
Trauma wasn't noticed at the moments
of impact.
Chemicals balanced their best then.
The art of living was,the heart of living.
So simple did joy fill it.
That's before we grabbed a jaded blade,
and slowly cut it out.