Heart Disease

I've often wondered how deep your heart goes
In your chest.
Is it a canal ending in a thin pane,
Like an ear drum pulsing with every sound
But never ever penetrating beyond?
Could it be a spout? Old faithful?
Spitting back the juices of life
In the faces of those 
Who filled you with them?
Or perhaps its a black hole,
Seeping, soaking, synthesising, spiralling,
A centrifuge round and round, an infinit e world pool
Of truth. 
A spider web connecting the threads of reality in your soul
Sorting them into some kind of purpose.

And yet I know that for some people
All it does is pump blood
Four inches beneath the surface.
But whatever it was—
I guess it was too shallow to survive
Because all I see is the hollow corpse
Of someone who once was human.