Some Preliminary Thoughts on Dehiscence, Presented in Sonnet Form

‘A book should be an axe that breaks the frozen sea inside us’
-Franz Kafka

‘The human heart, God’s open wound’
-E.M. Cioran

‘You’re frozen, when your heart’s not open’

I wonder if, circa ‘Frozen’
(Maverick Records, ’98),
Franz and Madonna weren’t
conspiring towards
the selfsame sentiment?
So many years/remuneration
degrees apart.
Invoking both that
same pick axe
that, bludgeoning the heart,
blooms the ice-rimmed,
erstwhile hoar-lidded,
molten pullulating?
Flora of light?

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