One’s heart may sing
when the loudest of minds
no longer thinks.
Quiet, content—
all noise is absent.
The mind sits
and waits a while.
Perhaps it sleeps
while the heart
finds itself awake.
Curious, each seems—
while one is awake,
the other dreams.
And the dreamer’s imagination
bursts at the seams,
no matter what one believes.
And I find them unique—
the mind and heart:
how one is kind,
and the other is art,
and neither bleak.
And though each may feel
only one is truly real—
and the other, surreal.
Yet to tell them apart
would ruin their art.