Digging is hard work, especially if you’re digging alone.
The drop of sweat that,
Originating from the hairline has trickled down the inevitability of your brow and now trembles upon the lash,
Let it cloud your eye.
No one is there to look at through the haze
No hands disturbing the air, no feet pushing against the ground
No whispered prayers no softened lies
Nothing dares approach this final delusion.
Digging is hard work, especially if you’re digging through the heart. The matter is unhelpfully shifty and slimy, yet it endures. You’re bent over your knees by now, and your ankles are screaming. You bring down your axe and a thousand blood vessels explode only to reveal another mesh, and another, and another.
At the end of the heart, there is steel.
It is cool to touch, like death
And strong enough to withstand the weight of long-dead stars.
You lie naked on the steel of your heart and wait till the last of the warm blood has frozen over you.
Your isolation is complete, your freedom, absolute.
At the end of the heart, there is steel.
A final delusion, and then,
Mercy.
The accompanying image is Gravity XI by Brazilian artist Juca Máximo.
In Other Words 
Not sure if I would call digging through the heart unhelpful. Sure, it may seem that way for a while, a long while, but maybe there’s hope that there is some point to the ordeal. However, I agree that digging through the heart alone is hard work.
I don’t mean to disagree with your experience or its interpretation. Your words read like a mirror. Sometimes, I rub a spot on the mirror to see if it is a temporary mark, which is not necessarily a blemish. Maybe later I will feel the same way.
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