You colour the chest-implanted violin of life
with drops of  chronic
alkaline comfort.
You deposit in yearly doses
on the upper heart chambers.

You will be buried with her.
The book of souls deciphers
the chemicals were low,
your presence is unwelcomed in peoples' courts.

But  you have always been there
for her.

You are destroying her.
The blood violently regurgitates
back to the left and right cardiac chambers.
She wore that heart proudly in her chest.
She played the heart strings till her fingers
bled with blood.


But what worth do words have right now,
when the damage is really done?
No metallic stent can restore the pathways of the heart.
The violin strings break one by one.