My heart must be very dark
hidden so deep inside my chest.
If only my skin and flesh and bones
would let the sun shine through;
like the petals of a flower in the afternoon,
so that the shadows would dapple
my atria and ventricles
like a forest floor beneath a jigsaw canopy.
And in the warmth of such soft light,
who knows what strange fruits and flowers
might blossom there and grow,
and stretch their way out through open valves,
so that all the colours of sunlight
flowing through their veins
would be flowing through my own.
Through my skin, they would sing
to their cousins under the vast blue sky;
and as the music meets and intertwines,
the radiant notes like bonding electrons,
I am held in the world.
But my skin holds out the light,
so my heart has grown too dark and cold
for flowers to grow there,
and I fear that the emptiness
it pumps relentlessly through my veins
will drown my soul
and soon the world
will let me go.