who holds the heart up, still?

the heart can be pierced and wounded,
but the blood will still run through.
the blood will still run through, why still?
what holds the heart up, still?
as broken and cracked and punctured
as can be, so should i say instead, whose hand
holds the heart up, still?
when they all fall away into that crimson
gradient of nothing and leave only holes
for this heavy heart to bear,
what holds the heart up, still?
when their bloody weapons split you in two,
shatter you in a thousand, a million,
like glasses, whose hand
holds the heart up, still?
whose tender palm lets this blood and flesh
blanketed in one harsh blizzard of love
balance still, a foundation?
what holds the heart up, still? and
if their hand fell into that gradient alike
there would be no holes, no longer.
a hundred shoulders, but none the same.
when this foundation falls, all else falls,
too. when the others fell,
this hand that held you.
just as you held them.
envision their own succumb, i
ask you. whose shoulder is really there?
how must you, go to the foundation,
cry to the unrelenting, the solid
ground beneath your feet, they
tell you, if the foundation is gone?
this hand.
no matter the scrapes, the scratches,
the slashes, at the
end of the day
and also the cold, hard night
what holds the heart up, still?
whose hand holds the heart up, still?
who holds your heart up,
still?