Nestled behind bones

that can be broken by

sticks and stones,

 

A rhythm

made of flapping wings

and plucking strings,

of raindrops

hitting the pavement

and of quiet patience;

 

A rhythm

as steady as the sun being flung

across the heavens

and as erratic

as the deep expansion of lungs

in my sleep;

 

A rhythm

that walks like a long-legged fawn

and pinks like the horizon

at dawn,

and gently taps its fingers

onto love that lingers;

 

A rhythm

that sighs and shivers

at the taste of

the morning mist,

and delivers worry

to those dearly missed;

 

A rhythm

that takes breaths of light

and gasps of rage,

whose unswerving might

extends its reach far

beyond this cage;

 

it beats,

it beats,

my heart beats

 

(A rhythm

that, surely, if stopped

would lead to something monstrous.

death?

perhaps. but a death worse than death

is the loss of a heart

and the death of a conscience)