Romance is dead.
He died a long while ago at the end of a blade
That carved deep into his skin and left his foolish heart flayed.

Romance is dead.
Immortalised in verse and token gestures of the heart.
A mocking caricature of mortal fervour turned art.

Romance is dead.
Do not disturb his condign slumber. Instead,
Heed the warnings on his scarred corpse, worn from heart to head.

Romance is dead.
Reanimation through the toils of a lively imagination will, at most,
Breathe life into a ghastly imitation or gallus emulation; a ghost.

Romance is dead.
The fires are out. Their embers cannot be stoked.
Let them crumble to ash and soot, no wistful memories evoke.

Romance is dead.
May he rest in peace.



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