Dear: a word I hold near my heart’s core—
but not so near as to disrupt its regular beating.
My heart I hold more dear than every word of Shakespeare;
ever shall I guard its part—
until Time’s scythe convinces my dear heart to stop pumping.
My contrition, clearly, when from my heart I depart, dearly,
will be never knowing how many times
the old ticker ticked before its mortal uncoiling.
