Heart and soul.

Heart and soul.

What is this heart of mine?

Is it but a muscle,

A pulmonary device,

An over active vacuum pump

Pushing blood through

Miles of winding arteries,

Day after day,

Beat after beat,

For little reward.

Just an ache,

A tight band across the chest

From time to time,

When it might have reason

To fear its own breaking,

As it flutters

In anxious overwrought

Confusion,

Skipping and falling,

Caught,

In the steely grip

Of a heavy heart delusion.

All in good time

It will hesitate and falter,

Failing in its struggle

With synchronicity.

Falling behind with demand

And finally,

It will be unable

To follow instruction,

The strain of constant repetition

Will become too much,

Forcing it to close down.

Will it worry

About this decision.

Chew over it,

Ponder the significance

Of its actions,

Or is it just a victim

Of its own success.

Will that be it for love

And soul.

Should they exist

In more than existential belief

Where do they reside,

If not in the very heart of me.

How can I be sure

There is room enough

To hold them.

Am I big enough of heart,

Do I have the strength and spirit

To build a safe house

For the soul

Or does it have no home

To call its own.

And is my heart to be

An empty vessel

When the spark of life

Deserts me.