for moments after a missed train to work

what do you make of your heart
that screams silent
trying to find enough crumbs
your apathy hasn’t snatched?

Russian roulette routines
you endure daily
to tell the world you’re this and that
trying to run from the bullet that will shatter you

what do you make of your heart
that pretends it can be a phoenix
but fears it may only have the flight
of an ostrich high on cheap coffee and mundane TV?

what will you make of your heart
the day you get tired of avoiding
the truths that come like a bullet
and how will you speak then?

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