my heart, my heart, it beats, and beats, and beats around my aching chest, my empty chest like some cathedral ruin'd by time like all the rest where stained glass windows, scarce intact, let in the light and make it shine and echo 'round the hallowed halls and sing like some old hymn divine -
and i just need to find the words of this old hymn, and write them down and shape them into poetry, so that the lark can free be flown
but all the words i write are wrong my aching, empty, ruined words are clanging 'round my chest like bells, they smash the silence, break the spell, and yet my heart, my heart, still screams the notes of songs I cannot sing they screech within my chest and, though i sing, i cannot seem to bring the notes onto the empty page; the page is full and still i sigh.
and so my heart will shout and scream and beat until i die.