We, Romantics, look at the Earth
Through the cracked lens of faith
Twisted prism of old beliefs got stuck in our pupils
We’re blind to reality.
We worship the old god
So-called Romantic Love
We collect her ancient bones
And make matching bracelets
For the Loves of our Lives
Trapped like flies
In the viscid web of chance.
Caught in the cobwebs hanging from sonnets
Pressed like violets between moth-eaten pages
Our delusions persist for ages.
We’re so incorrigible, indeed
It makes everyone sick
To the funeral of past loves
We come all dressed in new hopes
We pour neediness into a silver bowl
And bathe in it, masturbate in it
The ecstatic apogee of the Wertherian masochist!
Behind the worried backs and condescending frowns
We inject fairytales into our burning veins
The fantasy of a Twin Flame
The other half of the perfectly complete soul
We refuse to see we’re already whole.
We’re so lost in this new world
Where one does not fall in love
But flies with it
In a damn swan flock
Where passion and joy dance just for a song
In the endless ballroom of choice
Where one plus one equals three
Or five or more
Where shoulds and musts
Are replaced by wants
Where suffering is not part of the deal
Where finally you fall asleep
In the arms of your greatest love—
So come and sit with me, my Friend
With your dry wine and even drier poetry
Let’s drink and sing for the beloved deceased
She will be sorely missed
Red Thread of Fate
Romeo and Juliet.
It’s been all dismissed.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen—