My heart scampering across my chest becomes more
like hoards of grasshoppers pounding the western plains;
pretending as if they were a herd of buffalo.
The insect sensation reaches to the skin down my arms
and up into my throat, blocking all conscious thoughts of air,
leaving inconsistent hints; no breath for sustained life,
as though the storm clouds brewing, only lets
the sun peek through during brief intervals;
giving me small glimpses of hope on the horizon,
that he is still there.
He wrote.
In the shadows dancing on the landscape before me,
the resonance from my fast beating heart
begins to slowly sing out a soothing song.
Gradually and gracefully music changes,
to a mere brass tinkle of a wind-chime.
Zen now resides in the new stillness of my heart,
knowing he is still there.
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