And the heart slipped out

I stroked the little thing called heart
It's pipes, valves fluttering
Blood and emotion
Pounding furiously
for the love of life,
for the need to stay alive,
What if it for a moment stops
sighs and stretches itself
yawns and relaxes
Will the blood begone?
Will there be no more life?
no more memories
of the begone days?
no perceptual reality?
no light in the darkness, perhaps?
And when the light flickers
the mortal remains burn succumbed to
The heart, its tired exhaustion
can reclaim no longer
the house it was housed in

the body whose light shined
through its repetitive pounding and stutter
And its life slips out too
For a purposeless existence
What is it worth, aye?