Sing me no metaphors of the sacred heart.

Do not imagine that here lies love

Or the seat of the eternal soul.

Do not tell me of the spiritual ache

Housed within, or the thrill of the bounding beat

That cries of your innermost sufferings

And ecstasies.

Sing me no metaphors of the sacred heart

When I am well acquainted with its form

A strangulated muscle vainly pumping

The dregs of this life’s blood against the tide

To drag me screaming into old age

A fraction of a worthwhile self

Already buried in the past.

Sing me no metaphors of the sacred heart

But look at this pale form and ask yourself

Is this the thing that was your friend

Or a mere substanceless ghost of what once

Has been? Can this tired old heart still bear

The weight of the desire demanded

By your metaphor?

Sing me no metaphors of the sacred heart

But wait a while till I have grown accustomed

To this conscious death which I am living

Hold on another few days till the smile

Returns to my face and the blood creeps back

Under the skin from where it was buried

In this living death

Sing me no metaphors of the sacred heart

But let us be real. This piece of engineering

Pumping in all our chests will die of fatigue

One day and while we wait to wear out

Like cheap white goods with built-in

Obsolescence we have this lovely living death

Which is no worse than life.