Entrails

They tell me that I’m filled with organs,
But I can feel their hands.
A thousand souls that tug and pull
Each with preference, pain and care.

From the top are four curled round
And on the bottom one.
A hand that grips what's left
And drags it to a snare.

A painful beating in my chest,
The pounding at my ribcage.
Each voice is looking for its breath,
The whispers never wane.

A constant tension of the clefs
Cause my meat to march.
All crescendo unto death
For souls eager to embark.

Of my flesh I’ve been bereft,
But of my gods I’m so entwined.
That I have no need of organs left
Only drummers out of time.