Monday, September 11, 2006

the last romantic
The final complete version. yay. ^__^

The Last Romantic

Starting off at a point in the center leaves you at no end. As I sit here in the dark, under candles and shadows dance on the walls. Words litter pretty sheets of papyrus only to be torn at the crack of dawn. I have a story to tell, but I want to refrain from too much exposure. This tiny fable is fragmented as I throw it against a wall.

As an innocent, you spend your time dreaming of happy endings and passionate nights that only a youth could paint.
When in the reality outside your dream world gives a rude awakening. I want to refrain from too much controversey, let the atheists rest my soul. I still seemed to be stuck at a crossroads in my unrelenting tale. Not like I expect anyone to listen to my woes. A glance toward the clock shows 4 in the morning, yet I still want to finsh this tale, this long rant of a woe.

I do not expect cynics to understand these feeling that are rapping on the door to my battered heart. I am famished, exhausted and tired, yet still the papyrus litters the floor as an ocean of beige contour. A sigh of disappointment here, and a crowd of nasty rumors there. I still seem to be suffering. My personal woe is as the stories that litter the papyrus ocean on my floors.

Stories incrypted with bloodlust, betrayal, and broken hearts. I saw her and my petty sufferings faded as her profile was in my heart as my mind. I spent my days dreaming and sighing with a private happiness. I was laughed at, but then one could care less. There were plenty of romantics, the century was filled with them.

With frozen tears my mind faintly registers the dull metallic clang upon the floor. Resigning to fate is the temptation of the forbidden fruit. To stand upon the soil of the lost ground is to visualize your image eternally. Though, I cannot see you nor touch in reassurement. I seek a preordained happiness written in the biege contours of woven sheets. The tales float as if in stoned motion.

I am deemed to be bitterly poetic, to dream, to visualize, the things that bring forth from seclusion of my wounded heart. A romantic, a race of idealists who pretain to thrive in unrequited love. The bitter taste of sorrow upon one's lips as their hearts break away into the million fold shards. Staring upon the unoticing world through the glass prison, our race has vanished.

I've left my beige ridden quarters behind, I want to run through this opaque colored prison. I once loved the sweetness of my youth, the battles for the truth, I believed in this beautiful lie. To label my mind as obsolite, is a generation gap torn at the seams. Simon could no longer speak due to the seams of cold restraint around his frigid lips.

The last of the last, fallen above the angels, allow my title to be the last romantic. I wanted, I pleaded, I gave, please answer the last message left upon the desk of the dreamer. The daring of the romantics was precious, it lit the world ablaze in a passionate fire. Theembers of the orange revolution froze the last of the native creativity. Our well spring of vitality crushed under the gears of time which move in deliberate slowness to further agonize the remainer of dreamers to suicide. A visionary of contempt had slaved the outside world, allowing man to fall once more into wistful sleep. Thus meticulously having the memories of history and lesson slip away in their unburdened sleep. The romantics disapper forever into the desrt as if all of this was nothing but a mirage.
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