In Contempt of Love

You are no offspring of the heart,
But a product of a weakened brain;
‘Tis just as easy for me to part,
From you, as to fall prey to you again,
Fully knowing, from the very start,
To expect momentary joy, eternal pain.

What is the heart but a bloody mass,
Drone like, keeping time for Death,
Sticking only to its rhythmic task,
Sucking life from endless breath,
Draining Life from its nutritious flask
Without insight, without regret.

The brain, it thinks, it sees, it learns,
It contemplates the will to be;
It rules, it reasons, it discerns
Elevation from mediocrity,
It strives, it labours and it burns
To attain knowledge and surety.

Tell me, then, you of the churlish kind,
Would it not flatter you all the more
To be associated with the mind
Rather than the heart, vessel of gore,
Or art thou mindlessness defined
And does reason earn a higher score?


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