I walk and I hear rattling pieces in my chest, broken glass that had never seen light, teased by day and stoned by night. My heart is where dreams go to die and expectations are mourned.  No high hopes, just a finely tuned body in motion, parished eyes and a forced smile plastered on a shell. Take away my senses; my sight, so that I may not see the things that creates the memories that play back in my mind, my ability to feelm so that I can take every blow, without so much as a stumble. My nocturnal self is lifeless, and I awake just the same, but I go on and on, My heart is where dreams go to die and expectations are mourned.