The Goldilocks Symphony

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This mind, a bootless wrangler,

hounds its stubborn mule-heart.

Who truly holds the reins — or reigns?

The scrawny man scurrying in the soil,

or the beast with hooves of ingot,

forged in crucibles of blood and toil?


The bow of horsehairs quivers the strings,

only to screech in cacophony—

unaware it’s the strings that summon melody,

while the hand just follows,

inching delicately toward

the goldilocks symphony.


Truly, the heart — primordial organ —

makes her choice first,

before thoughts flood into the chambers.

To wrestle her is foolhardy—

a makeshift dam, undone by the heart’s own tide.

Yet will the mind ever learn,

tripping the same short circuits endlessly?




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