First, a muscle grows too thick, and then it strains,
Attempting, though it falters, to push life through veins.
Thus begins the heart’s unending quest,
Though burdens mount within the chest.
As walls encroach, and fibers twist and bind,
Yet, with every beat, it leaves breath behind.
Indeed, the chambers narrow, and blood’s path blocks,
While strength fades in stuttering shocks.
Moreover, the beat becomes an unsteady song,
Thumping, pausing, somehow wrong.
Eventually, as breath turns thin and cold,
The arrhythmias rise, silent, bold.
Although this heart strains within its cage,
Still it surges on, despite its age.
If caught in time, machines can read its tale,
Echocardiograms, and MRIs prevail.
So often, the blood flows barely free,
Until, at last, the heart finds no harmony.
But perhaps, with needles, with scalpel’s slight art,
They might ease the labor of a weary heart.
In essence, this muscle fights both time and fate,
Through each struggle, yet must patient wait.
And so, with care and hands deft, still,
There is hope to steady its will.
For now, it beats, though rough, not still;
And onward, yet onward, it beats until—
