Heart, the Peasant

There's this taste you get

On the back of your tongue,

After you've ran too many miles,

And your legs are numb,

And your mouth is blood and pain and metal.

Something about pressure in the lungs,

Or irritation in your throat.

But really,

It's just a warning

To stop.

More like a blaring alarm,

Red and flashing and bright,

Screaming and crying

For you to slow.

Breathe--

Please, please, please.

But there is the mind,

House of Logic and Survival,

King of Sight and Knowing;

And there is the heart,

With no name or title,

Willful yet shattered,

Bleeding without cease,

Simply because he has nothing to lose,

And everything to gain.

If he leaves his wound open,

A gaping maw of agony and rage,

Maybe another set of hands,

Warm and uncalloused,

Will offer a white cloth of surrender

To stanch the hemorrhage.

So the heart demands the legs

To lift their leaden weight,

And orders the shoes,

Now red

And worn with tears in the rubber,

To march.

The thing about the heart:

He does not know

If he is an organ

Or a muscle,

And so it often depends on the brain

For guidance.

But he also has no ears,

And should he lose enough blood,

He will find that he has no way

To listen.

So,

Through fields,

Through puddles,

Through neighborhood streets,

And downtown city roads

That smell faintly of abandon

And freedom,

You run.

The heart cries out

At every unfamiliar face

You pass,

A trail of blood following.

He assumes

Empathy is something

We all must have.

But people see the red

In your wake

And do not blink.

The King of Sight and Knowing

Breaks through the walls of obsidian

The heart had constructed,

For just a moment;

The heart tells the legs to stop,

And you trip

From exhaustion,

Collapsing into the grit

Of a dark alley.

The heart weeps red

As he pauses

To heed.

"They do not know you,

And they will not care,

When they see your river

Stained red with despair.

Find a needle,

Find some thread,

Breathe slow while you sew

Lest you find ourselves dead."

A childish omen,

The heart nearly roars,

Its tattered flesh

And ribbons of tissue

Flailing in denial.

But he sees you there,

Nose buried in the grit,

Knees split and burning,

Nails cracked

From pulling yourself forward;

The tears,

Long since dried,

Not enough moisture left

To grieve properly.

And worst of all,

He sees the shoes of a hundred others,

Not red

Or worn with tears in the rubber,

Shuffling past,

Their owners silent

And unfaltering

In their gait.

The heart slows in defeat,

Lying close to you within your chest.

He finds a needle,

Finds some thread,

Breathes slow while he sews,

To prevent your death.

If not the heart,

Who would it be?

You deserve to live,

To rest when your tongue

Tastes of blood and pain and metal.

And maybe,

One day,

If you walk slow enough,

You'll catch sight

Of someone worth the same.