Fire engine red and ticking,
not locked behind his aluminum barrel of a torso
but hanging from a chain of daisies.
This heart was sleek and impersonal,
contained but unfastened to anything.
I could take my heart out from behind my rib cage
and keep it nicely on a chain
of forget-me-nots (a nice sentiment),
but what would I become but an empty
automaton with a shiny ornament,
shifting gears and moving locks
in place of a beating heart.
Or I could hold out my heart in my hands
like a compass,
searching for the end of a fairy road,
traipsing un-rhythmically and heedlessly,
barely seeing in front of me
except for the space between my outstretched hands
and impatient feet.
But I would soon find myself
entangled and confused,
lost, relying on
a broken magnet and an arrow swinging too freely,
unconnected with its pole:
misled by desire and lacking in truth.
Yet my heart was made to seek
beyond its bounds.
and find home.
And it needs order,
a constant beat and a clear sense
of tempo to keep the right pace
for the right time.
And even though I may not see the road ahead by many feet,
can I see my heart clearly?
“Blessed the man who finds refuge in you, in their hearts are pilgrim roads.”