how little it seems to matter

the bitter poisonous bile that you so freely spat
still burns right through this tender wounded heart
like the acid venom of some scaly hell-bound viper

how little it seems to matter
behind those sly indifferent eyes
as you skim across the surface of what you like to think is life

how little it seems to matter
as you hurl your cursed epithets
like rusted jagged broken razors with such impunity and contempt

how little it seems to matter
that those you've touched lie bleeding at your feet
as you're conveniently tucked behind so many veils
of what you desperately hope one surely ought to be

somewhere deep within that tinder box
where once there was your heart
lies a dusty dry cracked weathered scroll
with archaic mystic symbols scrawled upon it

this ancient faded scripture may seem all but dead
and so it is if one does never dare to seek, discover and define
the true and timeless meaning of the priceless message hidden there

that heart which you've discarded so many years past gone
still beats for you in a dark and musty corner of your attic
the secret to the re-awakening of this broken bleeding thing
is clearly written in this age old manuscript, if you would but look and choose to see