The heart of heartbeats

Tiny, feeble, riffling thumps.
Thumping away beneath.
Stomping to their own beat.
Pre-chosen by them,
or by someone else.
I don’t know.
I don’t get a say.

Tiny, feeble, ignored thumps.
Pressing softly in my eardrums.
Going about their work.
They don’t share much.
I can’t ask why.
I don’t get to judge.

Signs of life.
Momentary, most-important.
Must be working with quiet sneers.
They don’t know rest.
Can’t know a quiet moment.

Signatures of life.
Ever-present, never-dulled.
They make me feel they are,
when whipped by worthy emotions.

Proofs of life.
Will they survive my trenchant logics?
I don’t think they care much.
I don’t feel alive.

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