In all the hours, a question lingers,
dense as fog, elusive as the wisp of a dream fading at dawn:
Whom to trust—
the heart, the head, or the soul?

The heart, impulsive drummer,
beats a rhythm of raw desires,
singing ballads of love and ruin
in the same breath, unguarded,
a tempest in the chest.

The head, a solemn librarian,
archives facts and files reason,
building bridges over chaos
with cold, calculated steps,
a fortress of thought, akin to an ancient relic
sought by Indiana Jones, mysterious yet clear in purpose.

The soul, ancient and whispering,
wanders the corridors of being,
seeing through the veil of now
into the eternal, where time
softens like twilight into stars.

Each beckons from its chamber,
a siren call to the shores of decision:
Heart pulses with fervent blood,
Head plots the longitude of logic,
Soul breathes the air of beyond.

In the weaving of their voices,
what emerges?
Is wisdom the winner,
or is it love, or perhaps a knowing
deeper than the dark roots of the earth?

Trust, then, might not be a choosing of sides
but a quiet harmony, a blending,
where heart, head, and soul—
each a note in a chord—
sing together, a resonant truth.

There, in the symphony of self,
trust what aligns, what balances,
what brings peace to the innermost,
for in the confluence of these three,
you find the map of your true north, like Indy finding his way
through labyrinthine caves, guided by the glow of his own resolve.