Secrets. Hidden pieces of self, stuffed away for fear of the known. The heart, a fickle beast. It played its own tune. Scratched its own scruff. Strummed its own pain. It bled its own anguish. And for what? A slither of happiness between gaping walls of insanity? The mind never told such lies. Kept clean. But the heart, always changed. Such a fickle beast.

Give some of your time, it sung your praise. Give some other, it filled you rotten. It danced around a fire. It loved on the surface of the sun. It made its bed in a pit of snakes. Where all that tread were still born again. Over and over it wrecked havoc, until you had enough. Until you threw it out with the garbage. Kicked it down the stairs with the strays. It was a fickle beast.

Untamed, unabashed. Relentless in pursuits. You gave an inch and it took an airfield. You gave a scolding and it blackened memories. That sweetness, just a pipe dream. Awaken and take heed, before it takes you and leaves nothing. The flute player blows its love. The piano man fingers its sentiments. A beast.

I wish for the stars. I pine away at the moon. Yet, no resonance. My heart cleaned house. Took the dog and slippers too. But who's a fool, if not one with sleeves in blood? And who's the wiser, if not a lifetime to come? Save me now and take my breath. For if tomorrow comes, save my soul for another day. Save my soul.. for another day.

The cat sat.  On the mat.

Adonis; what do you think about that?