Heaps

The bones in my chest
blessed as they are
separated by serrated flesh,
nonetheless perform the job
assigned by nature’s machinations
to prevent complications
upon your arrival
into my life.
They crack and warp
and weave patterns of thought,
until my gleaming beating heart
exposed like the first dew of the day
is under attack again.
We start as friends but I know how
it ends,
it ends.
It ends and I’m coughing up blood,
the Styx rises and floods and I’d pay
the boatman to end all my days
as a heap of bones
from whence I came.