You hold a clammy hand against your chest
And mop your dry brow with a handkerchief.
You peer inside your own dull heart without
A scrying glass nor microscope nor book
Of gray anatomy. This lesson needs
One thing: a love, a war, a death, or else
A knife to cut the heart out clean to see
What makes it beat and tick and squelch and squeak.
See the little veins and valves (sticky meat)
And learn one thing: aside from blood and squish
It's an empty thing, bereft of passion
Or love. Our pretty lies are precious things
To us. Yet the tepid heart is hollow
As this poem, your passion, or your phony love.
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