Lonely Hearts

What about the lonely hearts,
Pumping rolling blood,
Upon the nightish asphalt?

Who feels their red severage,
Caressing the simple ground?

Me,
Only me,
Of all creatures,
Only me.

A horrid prideful curse,
For I am the strange stethoscope,
Savagely listening,
With impunity.

Beat, beat, beat,
With one hand held,
At a Roman breast.

Eyes bulge,
In bad surprise,
As I hear all hearts stop,
Inside my deepest eardrum.