One Foot Still In The Door Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

My insides are feeling hollowed out.
Yes, I've been tossed aside before.
But this time is different. it's-a-drought
My heart is wilting, dried up to the core.

I listen intently for any reason to stay.
There are only lies on top of lies.
What we had ripe fruit rots and fades away.
I take comfort in the mould that slowly dies.

How it lingers to survive but untimely croaks
This is how it feels holding your photograph.
The fire is dead - it no longer sparks, smokes
And your old love letters read like an epitaph.

Love hearts and kisses engraved on a tomb,
I ask myself which way you lean.
But plain as day, there's nothing to exhume.
All I need now is a match and some gasoline.

I ask myself which way I lean.
Finding myself with one foot still in the door
Vying this darkness back into its ravine
I want you back once more.

~or~

His insides are feeling hollowed out.
Yes, he's been tossed aside before.
But this time is different. it's-a-drought
His heart is wilting, dried up to the core.

He listens intently for any reason to stay.
There are only lies on top of lies.
What was ripe fruit now rots and fades away.
He takes comfort in the mould that slowly dies.

How it lingers to survive but untimely croaks
This is how it feels holding her photograph.
The fire is dead; it no longer sparks or smokes.
And her old love letters read like an epitaph.

Love hearts and kisses engraved on a tomb,
He asks himself which way he leans.
But plain as day, there's nothing to exhume
All he needs now is a match and some gasoline.

He asks himself which way he leans.
finding himself with one foot still in the door,
Vying this darkness back into its ravine
He wants you back even now once more.