by Elise LeQuire
The cry of it can rend the night
Or double pulse rates in a flash,
Its orange sheen, its whirling light,
The hearts it holds after a crash.
But listen, should the day approach
When you must stay and I must leave,
Think of me as that shrieking coach
That speeds away; oh how I’ll grieve
To hold a disembodied heart
And leave your side; oh how I’ll moan
At losing you, no surgeon’s art
Can keep a heart alive alone.
Still you will hear me rave and scream
Announcing horror in the night,
And I’ll be in each siren dream
And in each whirling warning light.