Because it drives me, moves me, proves me,
the love of my soul, tis fear of growing the same and old.
No untried roads, untread cliffs, no sights that has been missed,
But more like the sun seeking that darkened place
Where none exist with his brightened face.
Who doth lighten them all to their shadowy core,
Oh that I were such this and less than poor.
Its that fear of, that haunts, and flaunts, the staunch
fear of mediocrity. That fear of accepting insaneness
That keeps me in love with the fleetness of death and Jove.
That fear deftly given to a romantics bag making his
Passionate gifts diminished with life, reclaim a luster
Recalling spice till all is forgotten of the struggled
Shards the burns and scrapes of loves embrace.
Loving the unlovable, forbidding the superficial,
Gaining legacy in unpopularity, the terse romantic's ploy
Is given space, a little place, the gift of loathsome fear.
All a bit of heaven's rift from man's distinctive rancid spoil,
The imprinted sanity of having precious terror's torment
Riding slaver over slave and uniqueness over madding crowd. |
