“This Heart”

The heart bleeds black India
Though not through a vein
It's said the flesh is the sanctuary
For a soul led astray

Yet the heart is the library
Decrepit and ancient
Where the scars are the manuscripts
Collected with patience

Filled with love songs forsaken
Next to books with blank pages
For plays yet to come
Upon immaculate stages

To the melodies of mortals
With their highs and their lows
And a chorus of angels
Of which some fell below, and

Within this binding you weep, yet
At the same time you shine, for
In this heart were you born, so
In this heart should you die