WHERE THE HEART TICKS ALONE
The heart’s rebellion knows not retreat;
It craves the face
That it sears in its grave,
And waits, and waits...
Though time may leap, yet still it keeps
The rebel’s notion deeply engraved
In its core, in the iron crest.
It claws through dark, through dust, through end—
A vow that rots, yet never ends,
Entombed… yet breathing within.
It carves its way all alone,
Through the chambers—glass and grit—
Where iron gears grind out the breath.
In the heart’s lonely grave
Awaits a heart, bound still,
Not to love, not to grief,
Yet to some unnamed will.
It beats not for sun or moon,
Nor counts the hours of the day;
But like a clock in a hollow room,
It ticks the wasted years away.
It functions by a frozen law,
A clockwork pulse in a chest of stone;
Too deep for any spring to thaw,
It works its logic all alone.
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