Romance Is Dead
Whoever said romance is dead
sampled of my pain,
with face dejected, cowed, neglected,
reason drove insane.
For I have slain the heart and brain,
incinerated black,
and all that's sacred seethed with hatred,
stabbed receding back.
As it bled from severed head
and putting out of eyes,
left nothing save an unmarked grave
to signal where it lies.
A jagged knife this quiet life
where little comes to pass,
so toast the bones of vagrant clones
and smash the empty glass.
Whoever said romance is dead
may well have thought me bad,
no more perturbed, no more disturbed,
remorseful, sick or sad.
So never mourn the dying dawn
of bogus love's decay,
for in the end my so-called friend
it's better off that way.
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