The pain deep within sears with fiery burn
A persistent pain, to which there’s no gain
For you, you see, there’s nowhere I’ll not go
So I’ll play this hand, for I can’t forego.
There’s no depth too low, nor deprivation
There’s no face too shear, or sunken station
There’s no time too long, this is pure passion
There’s no thing too far, for you’re my heaven.
Two full moons have come and gone since you’ve gone
The Whys for your departure, are now clear
The guilt trips were cruel, my dear desert pearl
The bathroom floor’s no place for a treasure.
Oh how I now know the errors I’ve made;
I know now too that true love does not fade.
Oh let the hopeless amongst us bow to the Latter Day Romantics . . . . . .
— John Keats lived to 25
— P. B. Shelley lived to 30
— Lord Byron lived to 36
. . . . . . . we can revise the tires but let us not replace the wheels; far better to pay yesteryear some degree of heed. But ya Jay Bae don’t here get me wrong, we do too need to be creative and inventive. It is true indeed that we can’t stay stuck perpetually in past’s lust but, we need to read a bit about it before we can gainfully dig for and articulate convincingly pleasures new.
A Master Cannot Serve Two Mistresses