I can’t find solace in the love
of paperback romance.
In Twilight there’s no happiness,
in Sparks? There’s not a chance.
Their passion does not move my soul.
Their tears won’t fill my eyes.
How could I feel emotion if
in it no true love lies?
There is no satisfaction where
our souls are found forgot.
We fill our outer shells with more
than Nothings that we’ve bought.
My loyalty rests in better times—
in times of olden grace,
when masterful Jane Austen ruled
and put our lust in place.
