There is none more courageous than the boy or man alike, who seeks only a life, weighted by truth and romance with the wandering goddess of his dreams.
He is a suffering victim of her radiance; a slave to love bound, bare in chains of lust, incarcerated within a cell of burning passion.
Love strangles his every breath and chokes his every word. He tries to breathe deep when in her presence but the breath isn't even drawn through his dry cracked lips. His lungs deprived of oxygen, scream and screech to remind him of the importance of breath.
He wants to talk, at the very least greet her. His jaw, of rigid steel, mind as bare as the silver desert, chokes, coughs, sputters. He turns in remorse and withdraws from her graceful essence, to find himself back in his shadow- draped room hunched and bleeding beside a flickering candle scribbling this poem on a dog-eared pad of paper.
Whilst under the curse of the romantics he feverishly dreams, never to wake again. A romantic is he, curable he is not.
From his body a blush blood bleeds, his mortal wounds struck deep by love's silver blade are incurable.
We romantics are a special kind, rare, we appear as mortals but in spirit and soul we are immortal. For us death is merely a suggestion.
Love is the death of any and all rationality but in turn, the birth of truth, meaning and beauty.
Chris Sokoloff
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pleasuring-pain-of-romance/
