Veins — Maybe they never sleep -
Like primitives ready for hunt
And a thirst for blood it kills
Kills us to make itself alive
It pours perhaps it’s selfishness to heart
And heart it sips through it all
Bulges and bulges unable to cry.
Perhaps we weren’t meant to be -
For all the heart does we tell it’s secret
To our brains
Like a cheating friend
A vile