Your heart was rent.
The tourniquet helped your cloven heart -- for a time;
but, when I found you prostrate and cold:
I knew I was no Aesculapius.
I shooed the snakes from your body, and drove you to a specialist.
The emergency reconstruction was a success.
The new valves synced your three atria and ventricles into rhythm beautifully.
I couldn't help but Rumba.
Thinking you well, I left for good.
Years later, the valves failed.
A machinist replaced the old heart with one of tungsten.
It matched your alabaster smile well.
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