Beating
Beating
Softly
Loudly
Beating
Beating

With each beat a flower grows
Beautiful yet deadly
With thorns
Oh so sharp
It reeks of deep passion
Of summer days

A pile of hearts grow
While he watches them
Beating
Beating
Beating
Beating

They act as soil
Soil for those dangerous things
Blooming, ever blossoming
Outwards, towards him
He plucks one
Observes her

Then swiftly places her back
Some he holds longer
Than others
They all long for his touch
They wither when he isn’t near
He has these things, under his spell

He is that gardener every man wants to be
Because his charm is rich
He is able to find the best hearts to be the soil
While some men only get a few
He collects them all
His pile grows

Different colors of blooming hearts
Red and purple and yellow and blue
They sprout every which way
They don’t need a direction
They don’t need water
They don’t need sun

Just him
He is all those pretty things need
And the convulsing hearts beneath
They need him more
With every breath he takes they are fed
With every smile, they glow

Those pretty little things
So full of life
Yet they speak death
For my love for this gardener
Is also only a little heart in the pile
He had plucked me

And he had kept me for a while
But he put me back down and now
I wither and die inside without him
And I see him every day and wish for him to
Roll my stem in between his fingers
Kiss my petals with the tenderness he used to hold

I wish for the seed to fly somewhere else
Be true to a different gardener
A kinder one
A gentler one
One who will keep me with him forever?
But my stubborn roots

My stubborn roots hold fast
I am among many in that pile
My thirst for the sweet water
That is his attention
Overcomes my desire to leave
Overcomes the desire

Of every one of those beautiful flowers
Growing
On that
Beating
Beating
Pile of hearts