My heart is a bookstore.
Full of stories, and the promises
of the wide world.
But less and less visited.
Something has moved on.
My mind has a digital heart that
is easily accessible, but that cannot
Will I become the haunting place of unhappy
septagenarians, like the used bookstores of the future,
with nothing to do but tear down
the labors of others with
the newfound strength of modern dentures?
Maybe I will go global.
Maybe my heart will be copied over and over
in its new form, live out some new, imagined,
ceaseless beating in a world I no longer live in.
Maybe it already does,
here in my flesh.