The heart is encased by a perfect circle of glass bricks, not quite transparent, not nearly opaque; there is still chance enough to see it beating out its passionate rhythm.
It is a beautiful thing.
The mere glimpse of it sets the soul alight.
Someone has built this wall around the heart, high and strong and seemingly impenetrable. Someone is determined that no-one be allowed inside. But someone’s materials are ill chosen - they may as well have left cracks in the glass, forged a doorway in the cone.
Each brick is a laugh, moulded and crafted to keep away the tears. Each glass block is a smooth comment with a serrated edge to keep trespassers at bay. Each ice-like slab is a shrug of the shoulders, the draining of another tumbler, laissez faire and do not care emanate from the coldness that surrounds this beating pulse.
Someone thinks the heart is safe inside.
Others will not rest until they have scaled the slippery walls of its fortress.
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