My heart does not pulsate, Nor dance; To anyone's tune. Instead, it creates. And sometimes, It re-creates its own. I can hear The first faint strains Of a symphony of Melancholia; Coming from its Four heavy chambers. And it is writing A song for you, It is waiting To drown you; In between Peaks, and swells, And fluid transcendence, In the only way My heart knows How to beat.