Deep down inside of me,
a question lingers, languishing.
Which heart will I have today?
That muscle that contracts,
The one that pumps life, or
The one that aches, and waits.
Playing the jester to hearten
these heartless hours, comically
synchronizing each heartbeat.
Ticktock of this life’s clock,
it is folly to believe the song of heartstrings
could capture the fire of desire.
So I wait for the masters’ decision,
its heart-to-heart prognostication,
©2019, Donald Harbour