The Stones Bleed Like Me

You sit there upon an altar of stone,  

in the mausoleum of your ancestors.  

I approach you with a heart of gold  

and a mind of stone—  

begging, pleading for you to stay  

on this plane with me.  

But you wish to leave.  

I shear the flesh I hold so dear,  

ripping open my chest, exposing my beating heart.  

My flesh stretches, lean and taut,  

like the red strings of fate.  

This sanguine harp, made of my flesh,  

is laid bare before you—  

and I play a song of love,  

desperation,  

and loss.  

My flesh sears with every pluck  

of the crimson cords.  

I put my all into this last performance—  

but I know you too well.  

This song does not reach your heart.