My friend,
My old friend.
Think of me as a romantic,
Though please do not consider this
A weakness or a foolhardy and
Archaic enterprise.
It is but the pursuit of each flavour
Of emotion.
To taste
Both the sticky sweetness
Of infatuation,
And the hollowed defeat
Of an impossible love.
How the pains of a misguided plea
Can cleanse you
From all of the lies and
Cynicisms you have adorned yourself with.
The life of a romantic is nothing
But freedom.
It is the freedom to be, and to relish
In each dynamism of the heart
And to feel no shame in it’s decimation
Of your activities. A romantic
Is free to sulk
And to indulge oneself
In the theatre of their heart,
To forsake all that
Does not transcend them,
And all that does not lead them
On their pilgrimage
For that consummate love.
And, my friend,
My old friend,
It is the belief in love that creates me.
It animates my limbs
Into action each morning
And motivates my heart
To keep up its business
As shadows lengthen across the ground,
In the simplistic hope that one day,
Love will appear in a wicker basket
At my doorstep.
For now, I shall remain
Studious. Though that word should
Have no real place
In a romantic’s life.
I shall read of the love that escapes
Every author,
That causes them to spill words onto a page,
Hoping that they too
Surpass all of reality
And hold true the feeling of the numinous
That causes men to weep
At their guitars
And women into their pillow.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
My friend,
My old friend.
Think of me as a romantic,
Though please do not consider this
A weakness or a foolhardy and
Archaic enterprise.
It is but the pursuit of each flavour
Of emotion.
To taste
Both the sticky sweetness
Of infatuation,
And the hollowed defeat
Of an impossible love.
How the pains of a misguided plea
Can cleanse you
From all of the lies and
Cynicisms you have adorned yourself with.
The life of a romantic is nothing
But freedom.
It is the freedom to be, and to relish
In each dynamism of the heart
And to feel no shame in it’s decimation
Of your activities. A romantic
Is free to sulk
And to indulge oneself
In the theatre of their heart,
To forsake all that
Does not transcend them,
And all that does not lead them
On their pilgrimage
For that consummate love.
And, my friend,
My old friend,
It is the belief in love that creates me.
It animates my limbs
Into action each morning
And motivates my heart
To keep up its business
As shadows lengthen across the ground,
In the simplistic hope that one day,
Love will appear in a wicker basket
At my doorstep.
For now, I shall remain
Studious. Though that word should
Have no real place
In a romantic’s life.
I shall read of the love that escapes
Every author,
That causes them to spill words onto a page,
Hoping that they too
Surpass all of reality
And hold true the feeling of the numinous
That causes men to weep
At their guitars
And women into their pillow.
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