This Heart

This heart always beats. It always has, though never to the rhythm of a passionate drum. For stone has no rhythm, Stone cannot dance, It simply bides it’s time, Eroding till only a fragment of a once vast rock face remains. A mere pebble is no lump of coal. It hasn’t the strength to power such a large vessel as this one, Though it tries Its pitiful vibration sends only minute wisps of air through hollow chambers. Deposits of dust lay dormant. The shift of a single grain is not enough to sweep this desert. But this heart still beats.