When his heart stopped
hers stopped too,
no longer beating rhythmically-
erratic, all out of sync.
Tears would not cry
for to cry would be to admit
his precious heart was still,
so she let hers beat more
and all at once
it could bear it no more.
For if she let it pound within,
her chest would surely burst
holding this heart
that tries to beat for two.
Slowly a rhythm of life
will restore within this cavity
where pounding is now laboured,
calmed only in remembrance
of his musical fetes
echoing throughout the house
when he lay his masterpieces to sheet;
for out they poured,
and out they sang,
from his magical, rhythmical heart
that bears the only music that will accord
a mother’s anguished, out of sync heart;
for she remembers his heart beating within her,
she felt their hearts beating as one –
The rhythmic joys that sing out
in memory of this great song
springing from his poetic soul,
and tunes her heart’s cadence now,
listening to his eternal,
heartfelt song.
August 2012
Muses, Ink 