evil homestead with wicked doors creak
a sound developed to make strong weak
incites adrenaline,
a sprint, a leap
fluid unto your place of sleep
nothing to be afraid of, of course.
except for the biting coldness, the source
unknown...
bed as your safehaven you lay and turn
and with silken walls you let down your guard
eyes drift shut but thoughts sporadic
you dream a dream, a dream of habit

in this dream you have no voice

and where you stay is not your choice.

pushed and moved throughout your lifetime

a little creak; your angry punchline.

The heart has four chambers running in conjunction with one another pulsing -- The blood’s pressure alternates consistently and swiftly and is just enough to allow for our survival.

it does very little else but allow for our survival.
This is interesting to note as the heart has been known to break.
If a heart is broken is death the result or can it be repaired?

...a question which few will ask but many feel
Perhaps the surgeons can fix your broken heart.  Go ask them.
Perhaps a defibrillator can revitalize what has shattered within your chest.
anything is worth a try...

Froze-over, yet elated
He realizes that the mind rests on the shoulders
That whatever he wants to do in life
Any plans that he has
Are under his control.
He wonders, “Then why do people cry?
Why do people die before they have to?”
He raises this thought up, above his shoulders,
above his mind, and ponders.
Its all due to location
where you are and where you’re from
how loud your voice is,
and dependant on your choices.
He starts to comprehend the broader picture
And to get a grip on where he is,
Why he is, and how he got to be there.
He considers it unfair
But ultimately that’s what life is.

When a Hand clasps a Hand
tightly,
grasps a Hand
tightly,
The hands begin to melt
Into one another, noticed by each other.
Melting not by intention, but still enjoyed
clammy, cool, soft and weathered
Gripping tenderly and
Hugging fingers
Intertwined divinely -- pulling at the surface
of skin, and the heart.