My Heart

My heart,
An embryonic pouch,
That holds countless foetuses of love,
A pulp of the still-born,
Of love that never got to be,

Ill-formed like tumours,
That cling with such desperation,
To the walls of my heart,
A test-tube of the macabre,

A freak-show that is my life,
Love still waiting to make its mark,
Create a spark,
A heart empty and hollow,

Pumping day after day,
Keeping this man alive,
In his state of loneliness,
He somehow survives,

Sarfraz Ahmed Copyright 2021