The house of this heart was a real fixer-upper.

A bona fide eyesore if you knew how to look.

Good bones, she had, but see?

Desuetude draped heavy on her,

shrouding windows, latching doors,

and in the darkness labored on,

devouring sinews undisturbed

’til only bones remained.

Can these bones live?

Within the shadow of this tomb

I scarcely dared to ask.

Once, in my ruined state, 

I had caught a glimpse of

something living, perched on the lintel 

and the warmth of that body so close,

thrumming with life

felt like resurrection.

But its living broke me more, somehow:

as I shuddered to life,

plumbing long silenced

surged and split, leaking everywhere

threatening what little was left.

What to do? I shut it off—

cut the main supply at the source

pulled the lever on my leveraged heart.

the rushing silence in that chamber

was deafening. 

It was like the silence of the grave.