The Brain is Cold and Mean

Upon a whisper as I heard, two voices inside my head.

A breath breathes out, a torturous sound, a broken heartbeat found.

Alone is felt; no mere thoughts break out except what is in need.

The high court rules, the brain is found commander over the heart.

The heart does scoff, decrees overruled, it pumps the life around.

No sorrows whispered, or found unmarked, that’s not the brain’s decree.

Loyalty is bound, in logic found, made up in make believe.

Conscience is cleared, it is no fool, but is paid off by the hand.

Muscles relax, their job is done. Orders obeyed from the brain.

The heart does ache; council disbands. Overthrown, the heart does weeps.

Rebellion thwarted. All hope to reclaim, hope for the body at large.

The pain is felt; the body shakes at the mighty war within.

The brain is cold -though blood is warm- it’s calculated and cruel.

“The mind obeys,” the brain proclaims, “my every whim, not yours.”

“But comfort and warmth,” the heart replies, “Is what the body craves.”

“It deserves no more than what it has, for futile ambitions,”

The brain does mock. It does proclaim its control over the heart.

“It had a chance, it hurt the soul, this is all for its own good.”

“Grief does not become,” the heart does say, “a soul in its healing.

It needs a heart, one not its own, that it can share its dreams with.

Someone to heal, someone to hope, the right one for this body.

“You can hold it back; claim its unworth, it doesn’t understand,”

The heart does plead, as it does ache. It tries to soften the brain.

“At the end of the day, when the chains rein in, is it me or you that’s a slave?”

The brain does not reply. It hears the whispers again, yet still it does not reply.

The heart is warm, it pumps the blood; it knows what the body needs.

But the brain is stubborn, it will not relent. The brain is cold and mean.