There is no winning with her.
Her hands tied behind her back
Still she has the upper advantage.
My hands are tied.
With stern necessity she carries her song.
Sweetly, like an angel, singing of truth
Wisdom echoes, ringing clear.
My heart argues to no avail.
She won’t have any of it.
Yet Reason can’t make it stop.
My heart swells and swoons.
With Reason ridiculing every beat.
And if you were to hold me in your arms,
Reason would all but disappear.
Monday, April 19, 2010