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
It was like the silence of the grave.