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I’ve read of such romanticism
on yellow, mildewed papers
in yellow light, Beethoven
and Tchaikovsky intoxicating the
air, ascending, swelling…
Romanticism like that of
Twain’s or Rossetti’s—the kind
the heart needs…in the moonlight,
In the kissing dew of the darkened blades
that surround unfettered feet, bare,
traversed by the songs of owls and frogs.
Silhouetted forms in company
seek clarity, purpose…
Obfuscation and quickened pulses
amend their broken hearts.
Oh, the joy to go moonlighting!
How would they know if it’s morning or night?
Why would they care?
They’d fly away to Neverland!... Why not?
Theycouldfly, theycouldfly, theycouldfly…
A hero and a damsel on top of the world,
doesn’t that sound nice?
I’ve heard of such romanticism:
the hailing gravel on windowpanes,
voices hushed in secrecy,
searching for a corner of the night,
wherein their love could run free and
flourish by the hour…
They could flee, they could swim,
they could SHOUT!! …or they
could stop, close their eyes, and listen…
listen to the cicadas, the crickets, the trickling
of the creek, the rhythm or their hearts…
Oh!...What now? the proposition of forever?...
Could it be like this?
Would it be the same when the moon goes away?
when the truth and the pain of the world kicks
the door down and tries to ransack their home?
There’s always they chance of an eclipse….
There’s always a chance of flood, fire, foreclosure…
Could they trust each other when darkness turns to light
and then back to darkness, when frogs and fireflies die,
when the creek runs dry?...
I’ve heard of such romanticism,
how someone would give it up for the world….