A Proper Burial

A Proper Burial

Is romance not dead. 

I feel that it might be. 

For every ounce of courage I have, 

it hurts in my mind. 

Romance never really had a proper burial. 

The property of romance should come with instructional images. 

The kind of images that keep your attention. 

Something like this is found in your head. 

You keep the search homeward. 

The solitude of an artform, 

making its way back to a nest. 

Warmth of a blanket in dark and stormy weather. 

Too often mistaken for how the company of a woman, should cure the death of romance. 

I think this as a man. 

I am a man. 

Where romance went to die. 

I am its corpse. 

I am the body, the imperfection. 

And the very reason romance is a mystery of all misery. 

I am where romance, is buried.