This Heart

This heart that beats and bleeds
is but a little pump;
it cycles blood around
in the closed shell
of this ridiculous flesh.
It is a thing of meat
that the rest of this meat requires.

This heart that sings and weeps
is an inferno;
it draws down the moon
and breathes life into words.
It is a thing of ephemera that the meat cannot comprehend,
but to which it owes its blood
and its beat,
nonetheless.

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.