There was once a heart inside me.
I remember swallowing it on a cold, rainy day
For warmth to feel snug and protected,
For a demon-fire to burn the wishful desires.
It was a Saturday I think.
A weekend for a perfect end
of Hope and a heap of other useless abstract nouns.
The fire remained, but only for a while.
Since then it has been dark and cold there.
A lump, perhaps of flesh, still beats feebly...
In its own mad rhythm, which I fail to understand.
Anyway, I never understood much.