My heart.
It shifts along the varied forms without
thinking, barely feeling now.
My youth is strained by my hope now siphoned to cast my line into this endless sea so many times, and yet I still go hungry.
The cold comes now.
The waters trickery delving deep sickening helms deep trickling down my ****** nose into the toilet water. The bouquet of blood makes me smile before hibernation finds me quietly.
How many years now, and though my interest is often peaked, my hope is still trapped beneath the waves, waiting for these seasons to change.