Weary dying hearts, held by shoulders prison. Muscles tighten all around. Breath is sharp and shallow. In incarcerated darkness the soul atrophies. To converse and to point the shoulders away, throwing narcissistic sounds into a room, without showing the listener a heart. A dictator’s rant into a faceless crowd. Ears fall, shoulders rise, neck pinches down and the heart seals in a cold chamber. Words, words and words. To what end. What is the intent for those whose hear? Are they even listening anymore? Stories of others become trapped in hearts drowned under the crushing weight of the untiring wind of… self. A storm that fortified the prison of the entombed heart.
One day… perhaps. Deep soothing breath will find the nose and lock the mouth shut. Then slowly the shoulders may roll back. The torso could soften and pivot. The chamber of the heart would face another pushing forward aligning with another. Chains of the neck would free the chin and it would finally have space to humbly rise revealing an empty throat. Ears would swell large like storm clouds filling the sky. The mouth shrinks, like dirty bathwater rushing down the drain of a bathtub.
In such a moment, another heart has a chance to escape the darknes.
Written by Zachary W. Gilbert 2023