The scent of intellect is cruel,
It disregards the shoulder of emotion,
The neck of subtlety,
And the breath that churns like waves of the ocean.
Its logic and reason are sharp cutting tools
That strip the covering off the breast;
It relies on no aspect of beauty,
Unless beauty passes some deductive test.
I am not quite certain of this scent
And its application on warm heart beats…
I cannot take pleasure in all that it wins over,
For I ache for all that it casually defeats.
Hearts Still Care 