If you care to take a while, and wander through my poetry,
you will unearth a serious defect in my personality;
politically incorrect... for sweet romance, is all to me;
in love with the idea of love... these days, to some... pure blasphemy.

And further, to compound this fault... condemned by modernist ideas
of self-gratifying conquest... scant romance found there, I fear;
but, then... the Predatory Male, appears to me, both coarse, and blind;
I too, may want your body... but, also... I desire your mind.

It's all a question of respect... of attitude... of empathy.
No urge to be one of the boys... preferring feminine company.
Adoring females of all ages... slim or cuddly; tall... petite...
each has her own alluring charm... so different, yet, so complete.

I have no time for those, amongst my *** who feel they must demean
romance with Weasel words of love, they neither really feel... or mean.
To bed the Lady with all haste; no prologue... just the sweaty sprawl;
no soft caress of her emotions... thus, do they betray us all.

This, then... a sort of Requiem, for how romance is meant to be.
Expression of the sentiments... the temper of sweet mystery.
Consideration of emotions, others have... not just your own:
the breathless touch of fingertips... of sweet delights, as yet unknown.

You may well say I am a dreamer, and, with you I would concur;
but... my world of dreams and hopes... or yours... which one would you prefer?
My world of thoughts will not betray you, hurt you... or, your trust, defile;
the very worst that it can do is leave you  with a wistful smile.