Dead Are Not the Romantics by Josh Tuesley

Romance is dead, but dead not are the romantics,
forever enriching their blood with prose and dribbling
the products of their hearts into a vacuous realm
where we are immune to their battles.

And dead are the days where fingers entwined in a struggle
for now we are keener to turn a blind eye
or blind one with a knuckle.
But dead not are the romantics who still stretch out to hold
a phantom’s hand in the cold;
Dead not are the romantics.

And dead are the jesters and uninhibited gestures
now all outright honesty is detained or festers.
Dead are the days where we spoke without shielding
and our conversations went without hidden meaning.
But dead not are the romantics
playing Russian roulette with their dialect,
with one chamber free
and five more firing out neglect.
Dead not are the romantics.

Dead are the dreams and desires of many
with the most ambitious men vying only for money,
or for the pink flesh between feminine legs
instead of the grey matter inside of our heads.
Dead is the light at the end of the tunnel,
and dead are the eyes of those lost in the rubble.
Dead is the father, the son, and the spirit,
and dead is the spotlight
and the perks that come with it.

But dead not are the romantics,
whose tear ducts shimmer of bitter hope,
but who tiptoe on tabletops
wearing a halo of rope

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