The chasms that separate us,
bouncing echoes off of impossibly high canyon walls,
hearing our own voices turn from whispers to deafening screams.
Sentinel beings, we drift sometimes aimlessly,
sometimes in a seemingly straight line.
But always our hands guarding our souls.
As for the heart, the heart.
We pluck it out, toothpick fine, and swallow it whole.
It stores safely in the moist darkness of the throat, away from prying eyes.
Oh, but the knot!
Choke and gag if you must, but some will find a way.
Ad nauseum.
Still others peer down from the high plateaus,
Mountains of transfiguration,
Magnificent light beaming out their orifices,
Fixed, yet strangely not.
Sentient beings.
Owning neither heart nor soul, yet manifestations of both.
They have been burnt and burnt again.
And again, just for good measure.
