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Heart: A Poem in Two Voices

We don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves anymore.
Doesn’t that seem a funny image: suits with concave chests
and hearts sewn to the wrist, pumping, pumping, like a stress ball gone awry.
Too much blood to clean up.
Can’t you see how it falls in pools at their feet, how their shoes turn crimson at first, but then fade into a sickening brown, more deadened than leaves, more deadened than wood or earth, a color that could only be manufactured.
Besides our hearts
And their lungs, their lungs will fall at their feet. And there they will be grasping for breath, for clarity, in those offices, as the world spins around them, with nothing to grab their eyes and hold them still.
fall into our hands.
our hands, always our bloody hands…
And we can’t stop squeezing:
Squeeze-thump,
squeeze-thump,
squeeze-thump.

And the heartbeats: they are the harsh beat of a breaking metronome,
of a sputtering clock
of the tide the day the moon blinks out of existence.

if the format seems strange, it's probably a transfer mistake again....this poem really does have a particular format, unfortunatly it's not really one condusive to this program.