for those who know their heart

what be a heart but an organ that beats in the chest,
pumping life,
until that moment when life be defined more than by the
flow of blood and oxygen fed
for now the heart beats for another.

when flutterby's lift the tummy, and the eyes know to smile with the mouth.
when mirth and joy come natural for the heart erratic with ecstasy
at the thought of that bewitching intoxication.
how sweet and tortuous the pain of imagined unrequited love.
the panic of yearnings
the wrenching of guts...nauseating thoughts of being irrelevant,
discarded...even worse...not being noted.

how can an organ that pumps blood beat so painful
yet keep one alive.
it knows to add colours of ruby red and royal blue and emerald green
and shades of burnt orange
splashes of gold and silver...as much as it knows to bleed.
it knows the expanse and vastness of the Karoo and somewhere
in that desert lies a small sanctuary
welcoming
warm and acknowledging....a little house
quaint
familiar and recognisable.

it shall seek refuge there.

...for
there
it shall find its bewitching intoxication
waiting

 with splashes of silver and gold
and a recollection of yearnings unrequited
and now
...fulfilled.

how the heart knows to be more than an organ that pumps blood and feeds oxygen to the physical form.

RB.