The All Seeing

If love is blind, then I be eagle eyed,
and savor every flaw and imperfection;
an appetite that cannot be denied.
Where love would hug and cuddle for affection,
I'd calculate, and while I lie in wait,
imagine the calamities befalling
the target, let its sad and sorry state,
my raison d'etre, dedicated calling,
wash over me, a soothing, calm effect,
a salve, a balm-like nourishing sensation.
Reality, though, tends to interject,
and lest my scheming perish in gestation,
refocus on the target once again.
For worse, at least according to my plan