The beats of the heart make our Cardio-Rhythm,
The sensation of nerves sing our Neuro-Rhyme,
A silent symphony of both Beats and Flow,
A love story of stimulus that is involuntary,
But bound to work together for some reason unknown,
Through ages of evolution they sung in silence,
But now in hopes of being understood by science,
They meet a critic of their song with no sensitivity.
Objectivity had labelled them for what they truly were,
Organs in systems with specific workings for survival,
To say any more than that is to add to worthless art.
Such is the pain in the death of subjectivity,
Where meaning can no longer be made internally.
The hand, eye and tongue had their own mind to nerve,
While the heart had beat its drum without its singer.
Cardio-Rhythm was real, but Neuro-Rhyme was illusion,
Their vital song was now replaced by necessary function.
It’s good that the heart is heartless and it’s the nerves that feel.
As subjective narrative falls against objective information,
But somehow maintains itself in the heart of sensation.
And so,
The heart now beats according to its own rhythm,
And the nerves now sing their own rhyme,
Promising to meet only at The idea of love.
To feel that Heartbreak.