In it's yellow eyes it holds a block of cement, its is heavy and it has rods in it. It is a thing of construction... the broken Tower. Once a magnificent thing... it once was a glorious thing but now it is a gray lump. Where is the glamor?

The heart is a strange, fluid thing. It is not fluid in the meaning that it flows... but that it is a fluid, it seeps and follows the gravity. Like fluid it runs into the cracks and holes and imperfections of the skin. It is fluid in the way that you can not, no matter how hard you try, hold it in the palms of your hand.

Yellow eyes follow every drop as it falls down towards the ground, towards gravity, and the slightest grin appears on its face. The shame is unbearable... the humiliation of loosing yourself, the overwhelming, undeniable fact that the only thing that is truly yours... you can not hold it. And that smug grin on its face! The shame, the vulnerability, the nudity and those eyes bearing down on you.

You can only hope, as you stand there naked, that just maybe... possibly... the universe willing! That your heart, dripping away from you into the dirty ground, will find a seedling. You can only hope that something good can come out of it, that there will be life that can feed from it. That your hearts liquid will create something. While you stand there, desperately trying to slow the leak, back bent, knees buckling, brow clenched and your eyes staring into those yellow, cold pools.

And that horrid grin..