Heart's Throne

The cage’s bars surrounded his elaborate throne
and on either side resided two twins who
never spoke a word of thanks. No one ever spoke.
The day consisted of the same menial job:
circulation of gifts. Send and return.
Nothing was questioned and the heart continued:
Pump and receive, pump and receive.

With an inaudible click and deafening
explosion from an outside source,
the cage’s bars shattered
spewing, ripping, lodging
into the throne.

A foreign intruder pierced a twin,
wriggled in its fleshy bed.
The twin did not utter a sound. He never screamed
as sweltering steal branded
its new surroundings.
External light bled into the throne room—bright and blinding.

“A friend, a friend. Someone to speak to,”
cried the heart. “Take these, take these.”
The gifts filled the space,
flowed out of the wound and never returned.
The intruder never spoke a word of thanks
for his new abode.
Nothing was questioned and the heart continued:
Pump and… pump and…

For the last time the twin gasped
while the other shuttered
rose, fell and sighed.
The heart had no more gifts to give.
The intruder spoke no words,
watching the collapse of a king.

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