worry

The pulse is a slow bubble
beating against ribs from within like prison bars
as they encage the melody in the rubble,
the polluting steam of troubled cars.
For the scent of flesh inside is tainted,
stricken with a rash of illness,
as bones can with lone worry tremble sated
for no hope is encased as any trifles.
And how it baffles the heart to think
no anxiousness could be relinquished,
but the skin is immune to the heart's wink
as its hope silently diminishes.
And the beat never manages a pause
in all its traumatic little taunts,
never a sliver of hate away it tosses,
its buried too well 'neath its noise so gaunt.