The New Romantics

What happened to the romantics?

Speakers of peace, lovers of love,

All thrown off the pedestal by the mass’s blood lust

fueled by their jealousy and greed

this ironic cynicism they must

rather have liars lead.

The Romantics die young

In today’s world will any replace them?

They are princesses and paupers, sisters and brothers

They come from anywhere

Burn bright

Then disappear.

Who are the new romantics?

Who will find reason reasonable?

Think of peace as possible

Who will stand against the machines?

And make more of their means

Where are the new romantics?

Bizarro

The poor living rich, the rich dressing poor

A broader glass ceiling and cracks in the floor

I don’t know how to live in this today

A poet in a world where romance is cliché’

Everybody’s selling, selling toys, selling lovers

All bred as buyers socially out of tune

So packed in, yet so far from on another

Often still alone in a crowded room

Our minds so numb with info were dumb

We’re told what is love we’re told what is fun

Women lost a little femininity when they traded for equality

now they’re lost right along

all over its vanity, with so little intimacy.

finding little compassion in our daily song.

You made me happy then you made me confused

I got the notion that I might have been used

And I’m not one to stand for being abused

So you  finally became something best to lose

Many choose to parry the woes of life

Many more try to ignore strife

but ill take the edge of the knife

For strife just makes my blood thicker

and allows me to heal all the quicker

A thinker may label such as callous

Yet “jealous” and “spite” are in missing tense

for those with blood so dense.

So Slow

The soldier on the first line,

his honor pouring off his brow

The lead horse in the cavalry,

whose legs will be the first to give

So many martyrs are already made

before the conflict becomes reality

Only time may separate leaders from followers,

the founders of thought and the instrument of action

Change takes so long and at the beginning

one might as well be an insane mute

and not dream of  satisfaction

If only blood had its own distinct sound

We could play the music

that may open the eyes of the blind

Skip the chapter of the antagonist

and cut the process down

to a sweet nursery rhyme

So slow to know

to grow

So sorrow sinks into

history

So we simply follow

so slow

So it seems shameful

that progression

isn’t controlled

By gravity