I write this poem to the rhythm of my heart.
I have heart arrhythmia, so call it free form.
This poem is free form like the dancing of a soul.
Made up and pointless. Nothing beautiful to mourn.
We are The temperature of air and floating as unborn.
The idea is that we don’t and the dream is as afloat
We write this poem together to the rhythms of our farts
Cheers to my heart