My heart has stopped. A restless machine.
Absent. Soulless.
It beats. It burns.
Like dark coal in a cold bonfire.
My heart has stopped. An organ without soul.
Blood flows.
Not for love.
Not for excitement.
Not for emotions.
Not for anything.
Like a frozen river of fresh blood.
Always meant to flood.
Yet, not meant to nurture my dry veins.
Not anymore.
My heart has stopped. As a dead poem alive.
Letters pronounced. Words read.
Meaning gone. Never ending.
Yet, it was dead before the first line was ever created.
My heart has stopped. I don’t know what to do anymore.
My mind is desperate. My body is numb.
My life drinks my seconds.
As a tightly-pained clock reminder.
Yet, I want to hear it beat louder,
so I could forget
how easily it could stop.
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