My beating heart.
It ceases to begin,
and flounders like art;
yet uncultivated within.
My beating heart.

My bleeding heart.
It rains like Toronto,
and spurts copiously like Mozart;
yet masters a sunset-calm diminuendo.
My bleeding heart.

My brimming heart.
It hums and rocks like a shaved red-head,
Every day my tricuspid gawks apart;
yet the rhythm deduces uniformity once again.
My brimming heart.

My brooding heart.
It emerges a misanthropist’s flower,
A de-everything’s desolate dart;
yet aligns with pious power.
My brooding heart.