Hearts on Strings

Hearts on strings
are such pretty things
Dripping ruby red
On the laminate floor
Old and young but he wants more
 
The heart,
A cavity of blood and arteries
The central station
A place for love and hate
A beating nonstop flow
Of emotion
and function
It fascinates him so
 
When hung on strings
The pretty things
Empty out
Just a dead clump of
Drippy drip, drip
Sweet honey liquid
The beat, beat, beat

Stops

Gone.
Out of order.
No one lives there anymore.
A vacant sac of dead
Emptiness.
 
Thousands of shells
Hanging in the kitchen
As nothing more than an art show
No regret, no sorrow
Just longing for another tomorrow
He’ll get them himself
His guilty pleasure
A sick way of torture.
Looking for his own answers,
in the screaming of others.
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