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Ronit Roy

Ronit Roy

I sometimes write and sing but mostly 𝖨 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗦𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗞𝗶𝗱 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳.

Heartless

2 min readSep 1, 2024

Tell me.. who did that to you?
The devil who had his soul choked out.
Who did that to you?
The man who had his heart cut out.

Last night I took my heart off my sleeve,
hanged it above the bed-praying windowsill,
looking over at a Himalayan molehill,
facing Le Roy-slaying Bastille.
It was enlivened by the relaying moonlight.
But then came the uncloaking sunlight..
And a de(composing) dagger through the heart—like Brutus.
Just (Sun)day the senate was orating a demise like Icarus…
But when have I ever flown?
When has my love ever shone?
Incongruous hence ensnared, dark hence alone…
I did not want to cite but sounds like E. Allan Poe.
(And all he lov’d—he lov’d alone.)

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Just a small-town boy.
Got no business dreaming about touching the stars,
let alone be blessed by them.
I got no business feeling incombustible, (Have a heart. Here, for your jars.)
let alone be kissed by them.
(Man can’t even hold onto feelings and you want him believin’ ‘em?)

There are tales I want to sing.
There are songs I want to tell.
There are doorbells I wish to ring.
There are wishes…
To be drowned in a well.

Well,
had I not been an only scion,
(He’s got no flow, Jah. He’s got no heart, man.)
I would have joined the (trapped) troubadours on the road to Zion.
(He’s no Rastaman. He’s got no raasta, man.)
By my own hands I would have dyed—
a prairie so red,
and a sun so dead…
(Youthman’s gone, Jah.)
(Gone Jah, gon-ja, ganja.)
(The man with no heart—)
(He’s gone, gone, gone.)
(Gone to the devil’s lawn.)

Now there were tales he wanted to sing.
Oh yeah, there were songs he wanted to tell.
Oh no, there ain’t no doorbells a dead prince can ring.
Well, there ain’t no wishes left…
All is drowned in the well.

Just debris of wishful thinkin’…
Floatin’ in this
(virulent) wishin’ well.
No vestiges of crescent dreams.
All is drowned in the well.

Floatin’ in this wishin’ well.
All is drowned—floatin’ in this wishin’ well.
(All is found gloatin’ in this hissin’ jail.)

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Angels with Dirty Faces (1938)

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Ronit Roy
Ronit Roy

Written by Ronit Roy

I sometimes write and sing but mostly 𝖨 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗦𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗞𝗶𝗱 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳.