Aortic Arc

When I’m comatose

need I do you a dose.

If dark it comes close

your memory’s a rose.

Vegetative I breathe

your perfume seeps

into me now I sleep

as memory I do reap.

My heart seems part

of some aortic arc.

I try move it to start

so rustic and in dark.

I am not a machine,

I’m made tissue lean

stretched at its seams;

pain it is so extreme.

Before you my heart

has felt the dark part

of its existence mark

I where you did spark.

The wheels they turn,

levers now rapid churn

motion you it learned

or pain bitter it burns.

I a fool have a heart to

try delve past sad tune

as I peer past my mood;

its cloud to see a moon.

Function fixed I’ve got

gears you as if a clock

that though flesh soft

I transcend it as it rots.

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