In a cupboard somehow lives a silent heart that does not beat.
Somehow it still lives.
No warming blood, no veins to pulse through.
The silent heart is scarlet, not cyanotic blue.
Not executed,but shocking.
It half lives, wrapped up in a faded page, torn from a periodical, the paper keeping it warm.
Locked away for reigniting.
One day.

One day, the lights will switch on.
It fears emotions that are long gone.
Full of sinews, cuddled in old news.
Heart in recovery, just having a snooze.
Lub- dub, give it a rub, help it to stay alive.
This heart's a survivor.
Long may it live.
(c)Livvi