literature

Wasted

Deviation Actions

SpiritOfTheShadows's avatar
Published:
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Literature Text

A lump of red amongst a bloody river,
Beating, beating...
That hollow shell silently throbbing;
The sign of existance.
Though somehow, impossibly, it pours liquid;
Bleeding, dripping.
Yet the pounding still continues forever,
Inflicting life.

What is this organ
Without the ability to love?

It is, like intended,
A hollow muscle
With no purpose but to pulsate.
Love being neither vital
Nor a necessity.
Though yours if you want it.

For without the ability to love,
The heart is wasted.
When hatred rules your life, it's impossible to love.

When you lose the ability to love, you may as well be dead.
© 2006 - 2024 SpiritOfTheShadows
Comments15
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regulus-obscuri's avatar
Oh wow... I love this... I haven't got any advanced critique I'm afraid.
I love the whole idea of it... and I also have a mind picture of this lump of muscle just lying there, beating... then again, I could just be disturbed.

But for me, the heart never was the organ that felt love. I always thought of love coming from the liver, which sounds odd and nowhere near as romantic.

But when part of the liver is destroyed, it will always grow back... it does so many things and nobody can live without it.
Also, it fits in with "butterflies in stomach" theory... heh^^

I've gone on for a bit x.X
*leaves*