Maybe the depth of a heart’s beat
Can create this hole, or perhaps
It is a cavity deeper than arteries’ feet
Can reproduce; to reconstruct a collapse
With haphazard patterns, perchance,
Is a precious kind of vein’s dance.
And though I am still, I can feel it advance.
Possibly, had I slept the night before
Last, and hadn’t all last night wept,
(Smoothing out new dreams and once more
Slowly eroding my cheek) I’d have kept
Those tears and, well-rested, played from start
To end the legato of my pauper’s heart.
And though I am still, still played every part.
And though no longer have I the will
To love, I do, and without legs I can
Walk or be idle, too; for I am still
As God created me, a man,
And a man may choose a pill
Over death (whether depressed or ill)
To feel anything at all, but I am still.
This was constructed by various thoughts I had after meditating. I’m not too happy with the way it came out but I think over-editing would ruin the feel of it. Enjoy.