Blame

Is it a hole I see inside my heart?

Looking in, it seems deep and cold… but the hole has a beat.

Is it my heart that beats?

The rain will wash the blood off the pavement.

Till next time… Next time it rains or next time there’s a hole in a heart?

Someone’s else’s heart. Mine beats.

These are children, butterflies and flowers.

The blood streaks them all, they are looking for the holes…

In the hearts, in the sky, in the leaves.

Not enough people… not enough guns… not enough God…

Not enough rain.

But enough holes?

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