It was his heart they wrapped up in tin foil,
the boy and misery, to keep it warm.
The crushing of the world does start to spoil
His heart left out, that love made in that form.
And so he took it out, those parts unscarred;
His arteries, his veins, the wounds still fleeting—
bloody details, gone dry, black, grown so hard,
fall out: leave just emotion, pure and beating.
For it is cold out at extremities;
His hands, grown numb, soon lose their will to grasp,
His feet lose feeling, but necessities;
Please save the heart, for joys he yet may clasp.
Boy, how you still hold yourself in reserve,
For all those things you think you should deserve.
