Jungle of the Heart

Somewhere deep in the jungle of the heart lies a house inside a man, empty and alone. It is filled with papers and filings, boxes and cabinets with little black check marks and tiny red dots. It is brimming with aloofness and severity, a ticking time bomb waiting for the perfect spark. A man caving in on himself, bringing the house down brick by brick. A landscape changing to a wasteland, a heart to an open wound. And the foul stench of narrow possibilities rising like a withered phoenix, called on its way back to some distant hell. Somewhere, deep, in the jungle of the heart.