It's Still Life

Where the Heart Goes

Then, without warning, the sky splits its seams,
dumping light like stolen jewels,
and we gulp the calm,
foolish as sailors
kissing the shore
that will betray them again.

Happiness is a spider’s bridge,
spun between gunshots.

And still the heart—
ever the fugitive—
steals into the next verse,
into the next stranger’s mouth,
into the next war
disguised as lullaby.

It learns to eat silence like bread.
It learns to hum so the children won’t hear
the absence of milk.

Where does it go?
Nowhere. Everywhere.

It goes where the dust
keeps the names of orphans.
It goes where prayer tastes of copper,
and lullabies wear bandages.

It goes where the songs
are still sharp enough
to cut bread.

And then, without warning, the sky splits its seams.

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Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.