The Romantics’

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The Romantics’

The carousel keeps singing, the longing of goodbye.

A childhood spent spinning, left a dizzy dragonfly.

*

Time may fly, but we made attempt to cut off its tender wings.

To stop the future coming, a youth drawn up on strings.

Oh what a twisted puppet show we all try to perform.

Convinced that it’s our freedom, for which we’ve gone to war.

*

Fight fire with whiskey, try to douse melancholy of the soul.

And pray the heat absolves you, and somehow makes you whole.

The wickedness of broken hearts, the shallowness of depth.

To give my all to something until there’s nothing left.

*

When desert sun burns skin, to which no one gives shade.

The same for those who love alone, filled up with weary shame.

But still it keeps on spinning, that tinny mobile circus.

I hold my head back, dreaming, a beginning with no purpose.

*

I’m back again, sweet lion, your mouth in frozen triumph.

The horses brightly dressed, beside the tiger are defiant.

Unicorns and elephants, all a handsome roux.

We foundlings, distracted by color, ignorant and new.

*

Why does the alcohol not wash my memories away?

Why do I stand objective, unto its power play?

Perhaps it’s memory too strong, and loves lost along the way.

If only someone had turned around and decided that they’d stay.

*

All you need, it may be love, but a sinister of sorts.

To make me choose between the air and a love that hurts.

But it’s a phantom pain, a limb long ago severed.

Like the singing carousel, a mirage of things remembered.

*

Perhaps the heart misunderstands our diligent rebuilding.

Lost in the field in scrutiny, dirty with the searching.

Behold and take these broken hands, these nails abrupt and wanton.

They worked at love and begged for freedom, but were left forgotten.

*

Their only use remains upon the grasping of the frame.

Of the metal menagerie and the memories that remained.

Around. Around. Around. On autumn winds we spin.

While the pain glows ever brighter and the light grows ever dim.

*

Wishes are just lady bugs, swept on a wistful breeze.

Little delicate emotions that hide among the leaves.

Now comes the part where we pretend to not notice each other.

While the fire burns at one end, and we play poker on the other.

*

Meanwhile, my heart won’t quiet so my thoughts can gather round.

So they come out in my smile when thoughts of you abound.

What a strange contradiction that the joy upon my face

Is not quite reflected in that dark and hidden place.

*

For I am just a passenger, upon this dizzy parade.

For hopeless romantics, was the art of dreaming made.

 

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