Not my heart or
the whispers
of little old witches.
My brain said
that it had all the facts
at disposal.
And, that its job was to think.
My heart was more timid,
so it accepted that it was
to beat only,
and to mind its
own bloody business.
Yet, at night sometimes,
my heart cried,
tiny tears of blood,
which were real
but didn’t attract any stares.
And my heart realised
that its priorities were
different from those of the brain.
And that there was no one to judge.
So, it turned out
as it always does,
when the crossroads
appear out of nowhere.
You choose with your head,
laughing about it
as you step right into it.
And, across the miles
and years of fulfilled expectations,
you notice, one night,
and it wakes you
from your righteous sleep:
A rumble.
And with ears hardened by pain,
ears that stifle a yawn,
you listen at last.
And only your heart can tell you
if there is still time.