A hand tight around the heart
squeezing all blood off it
excruciatingly slow
pulling it from its cavity
gently, to keep the veins intact
So that it may be presented as
still: a truly living thing
its harvest a century old craft
offering to the gods
by the witch hunters
Do you see it on that pedestal?
the organ pumped with pure spirit
and all the eyes watching it, stuck
like it’s the whole of mankind
Left chest left empty, if only at the moment
yet pain is its ghost
that keeps it lingering
like it never was
truly gone