The heart does not write, It does not sit before paper, with pen in hand, Or keyboard with fingers poised over fading letters.The heart speaks, Often in a rapid, unexpected torrent. It is moved, and it moves, It brings forth angst, anguish, betrayal, denial, and triumphs. It sings of dances seen over and over again, While still remaining secret. It gushes rather than plods.It's synchronicity Sometimes Out of time to its own rhythm. The heart is art,...