The heart for me is a foe

For it has no regard

No ryhme nor reason

And for all it can do is wail

For its misgivings and mistrusts

Let it be known

I suffer no pathos 

Yet I refuse the heart's role 

In matters of logic and love

For the blinded know no colours

Nor see 

So the mind, or maybe the soul

Should be the lead

In things of love

But what is love?

Nothing but a conjuring

Of silly words, wanton feelings

There is no love in control

Nor is there in being under

But who would argue with one 

Who wold be blinded by the facade called love

In heart, mind, and soul