Flatline

We all possess a keyed heart. <br> It is porcelain; without a cloak. <br>Scratched, lacerated, and marred.<br> It knows not of the impact, <br> but only sinks into the misery <br> bestowed upon it. <br>And yet, It beats. The elated pulse of an ignorant organ, is the theme song of a heartbreak, the slow song to the fall, and the tune of a pure mind. We ignore the sharp notes it serenades, when we know it is wrong. However, We trust it when we are fearful.  If it spoke, it would state our insanity. But if we could negate its reasoning, what would we hiss? I would demand an answer instead of calamitous silence.    And when he brightened my timeline, after constant deception, and being eyeless, I trusted a flutter. And here we are, dancing to calm beats, falling in love, and dismembering the origin   of a flatline.

This poem is about: 
Me

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