Heart

My heart is a vacant lot

Pocketed full of spare change

That jingles with the rhythm of the coming wind

My heart is a glass sculpture

Blown proudly and delicately

It falls to the ground

With great smashing tunes

That pierce the ears of children

My heart crashes to the floor

And beats aloud

Dead on the floor

Without the warmth it needs

I’m broken and dead

Like structures under Burroughs’ apple

And I stand in Lennon’s rye

I’m among where the flowers have gone

And my heart goes on until the last parade has past

My heart wraps around thorn bushes

And punctures itself

With the poetry and art, I create

For others to see

And attempt to understand

I go on living

And feeling

But as the students observed

His chambers were hollow

For he never knew it

My heart is the autumn smell

Of falling red and brown leaves

To the floor they hold and blanket

The smell of wet rain

And damp leaves

They cover the pavement and land

The earthworms dig in

And underneath

But deep below the surface

Who knew

About the well of tossed coins

And possible prison cells?

You can yell sweet thoughts

And hear them echo in my heart

They haunt me at night

Like a reflection pool

My heart is an ongoing event

It changes daily

Influences from weather

People and places

My heart is the shaded tree

In the great amazon

That doesn’t get light and grow

But protects the soil and helps the crawlers

My heart beats now

Even when I question why it does

My heart pounds every second

To keep me going

And take care of all the others

My heart is not broken

For every morning

I re-assemble its pieces

And attack the world again

Heartful

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.07.29.03:00:00@NYCNJ