I Am A Heart, Watson. The Rest Of Me Is Mere Appendix

I AM A HEART, WATSON. THE REST OF ME IS MERE APPENDIX.

Splintered soles and cracked rungs.

Soaking flames and black lungs.

Climbing only brings me closer to drowning.

Effort only speeds burning embers to rain down.

This ocean's waves crash up against the varnished sides of the hull, whose walls securely insulate my heart from the swells.

But these tides persist.

Rust grows by the inch.

Corrosion turns to decay.

This ship's tired and old.

Can't take much more of the cold before it breaks like glass.

I've been drawn and quartered.

My limbs anchored to spirited steeds who tear with opposite speeds.

I've had my turn.

I've crashed.

I've burned.

Through catastrophe, it's been right here in front of me.

This is of epic proportions.

The essence of enlightenment.

This is a divination which I alone am privy to.

My fears have been suffocated by vindication.

My vessel's bow has detected your beacons along the shore.

So I will grab my pale, and drag my shovel across the ground.

But I'm not striding coasts, building sand castles and moats.

I'm off to dig my own grave.

No service needed.

No eulogy here.

All I need's this final resting place.

So build me a tombstone.

Engrave it by hand with "The Boy Who Mishandled Your Heart."

My last goodbyes are to those who'll soon eat my insides.

I've been drawn and quartered.

My limbs anchored to spirited steeds who tear with opposite speeds.

I've had my turn.

I've crashed.

I've burned.

Through catastrophe, you've been right here in front of me.