Misery Street, the place my heart rests. It sits uncomfortably close to death on an old tattered bench. It once ran up and down the streets and followed each alley to its end. It once flowed perfectly through the gutters that connected these city streets. Now what fate haveth? To sit on an old tattered bench. At first it despised this fate, getting up once and while to frolick among the youthful hearts. Slowly it accepted its own demise. Slowly I accepted it. It has been years, almost a century since my heart has risen. But now as my brain slips away, and my mind crumbles, my heart pumps on. I no longer am aware of my state. Of my everlong rest upon a bench. But my heart knows of it. My heart is the one sitting there, glaring at death. To think my brain, my living being, used to think I sat there with death awaiting a transport. Some sort of chariot to ride off into Nether. But once again my heart knows better, my heart knows the truth. And if you ask my heart to speak it will tell you:

“Death has lost it’s sting.” 

Like an ornery child, it is forbidden by a higher power to torment me. By Thee Higher Power. No Death has a fate of it’s own and it shall come soon enough. But as for my heart, it shall rest upon this old tattered bench.