Heartbeat

Writing
what I write 
seems now right, 
now trite;
feels as though
my drum-tight 
heart, a-dream, 
beats reveille
or retreat: goes 
“Plink-plonk”, 
“Clash!”
“Thud!”
“Boom!!” 
“Thud-thud!!!”
 and even song-like
 — “Tara-tarum” — 
 all night:
tempo
tracking temper
in time
with the tune 
plucked
upon its strings 
dawn to dusk — 
tattoo
at dead of night
in light of life
led out of bed
 — But the echoes 
are louder — 
sounding bounds 
beyond
day’s doings
and undone — 
heartening,
like wine
 — heady memory; 
or harping
harked to sleepless,
steeped
in deepening, deepening
dark: a-cringe
at creepy
shades, stark,
of horror
hallowed
to the marrow; 
narrowed
strait — shaft
fraught
with downward 
drafts — 
arrowed
straight from yew
of yore
bent and bowed
from heretofore
 — past held fast
in closing fist,
tarrying
and carrying on
like grass-widow
armed with writ
of indexing finger
(to wit, graffiti
graven
under gavel
 — plus downing thumb — 
at long last);
digit now crooked 
undeniably
in demand:
in command
 — casting
giant shadow
 — taunting, haunting 
hologram unvaunted — 
to harry, harrow,
blast and blight; 
married
to morrow — if,
indeed, dawn
it might —

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