Maybe romanticism died because after hoping for the best outcome for so long we divorced the possibility of the stars not aligning to steer us towards Camelot
And we forgot the way we forgot the stars were never there we forgot what fortune was.
In our youth we perceived it to be our birthright our untouchable property prophesied to be our own and now in our latter years we know it is not the case
Fortune is not fixed it is not an entitlement it is the rare randomized unforeseeable lot that people stumble into.
Can the Excalibur be thrown into the lake already so that Camelot might wither away that Britain might fall and that the heathen might already rage
My heart has grown ill of dreams that are as real as the fictional place of which I speak
There is no poetry there is no romanticism
There is man and the illusions he creates
Damn the classisms by which I have lived my life
That have turned love into perdition
And ancient far away ideals into silly children stories
There is no man more worthy than another and there certainly is no magic in the world I now inhabit
YOU ARE READING
The Penultimate Pleasures
PoetryA collection of poems meant to embody the ongoing struggle of souls seeking shelter in modernity. (Let me know what you think:)
