She hammers out a heartbeat,
Clinging to its sound,
A constant noise to bind her,
To link her to the ground.
To keep her feet from slipping,
She follows it in time,
As though it were her duty,
Her singular design.

All she hears is beating,
Blocking other noise—
No tunes of trifling children,
No giggling girls and boys.
For noises are distractions;
They make a mess of minds.
Distraction likes the clutter—
Against her ears it grinds.

She holds fast to her heartbeat,
Latches to its hand,
But finds it too erratic,
Dribbly, like sand.
Up and down it dips and flies,
Makes her poor head spin,
Sending shivers up her spine
And tremors down her chin.

She’s lost her steady rhythm,
Lost hold of the sound,
The beat that duly held her
Anchored to the ground.
Her mind can’t find its footing—
It panics in its stead,
Lets inconstant rhythms
Muss her weary head,

Lets the twang of heartstrings
Orchestrate her cares,
And tangle with her fancies
And trip her down the stairs.
It sends her stumbling dazedly
Without a steady beat
To keep a constant tempo
And keep her on her feet.

She tends her bumps and bruises
Desperate, now, to find
Some steadiness to cling to,
To hold her glassy mind.
But nothing seems a constant
Except erratic sound.
What, then, can withhold her
From sliding off the ground?

What can keep distraction
From tearing through her head
And keep her fears from springing forth,
From crawling to her bed?
Can she fight this madness,
This urgent need to seek
Some constancy to bind her?
Or is she just that weak?