What is fear without a rush?
What of confidence without doubt?
What is ecstasy without melancholy?
What of silence without song?
It’s the great emotional sleight of hand,
the divulging of one and sublimation of the other.
It’s the perfect sentimental illusion.
Proffering grandness while shrinking another.
What is anger without meekness?
What of love without weakness?
What is glory without tears?
What of pride with no shame to yield?
It’s the ultimate magical display,
concealing the minor, revealing the major.
It’s the brazen emotional counterfeit,
offering the obvious to shield the truth.
What is madness without sanity?
What of rationale without inanity?
What is regret without knowing?
What of accomplishment without suffering?
It’s the quintessential mirage,
hiding the subtlety behind the barrage.
It’s the paramount legerdemain,
proclaiming a whole instead of one sawn in half.
What is loss without having gained?
What of euphoria without the pain?
What is anguish without absolute bliss?
What of abject loneliness without one kiss?
It’s a perfectly engineered enigma,
and our own emotional trick.
It’s perfection of emotional duplicity,
that we believe in one, but not other realities.
Maybe the answer is simple,
this schism easily justified.
Perhaps the answer lies in the balance,
between our hearts and our minds.