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.
