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Uncomforted by poetry
When I was one-and-twenty
Romance ruled my life,
and passion lurked round every panty
and poetry was rife.
Each heartbreak roiled with inky woe
each tragedy displayed
my pathos, drama, furrowed brow,
my heart: still-beating, flayed.
Cyrano and Lancelot, and all that motley crew
were stoic heroes, silent bleeders
noble, just, and true.
Love conquers all, for romance readers.
I'm thirty now, and matronly,
unimpressed by extravagance and outward show,
by swains and swooning,
by stupidity or deception, by noble suffering,
by secret trysts or stolen kisses.
My love is my own, and it is glorious.
But sometimes I miss the stories
When I was one-and-twenty
Romance ruled my life,
and passion lurked round every panty
and poetry was rife.
Each heartbreak roiled with inky woe
each tragedy displayed
my pathos, drama, furrowed brow,
my heart: still-beating, flayed.
Cyrano and Lancelot, and all that motley crew
were stoic heroes, silent bleeders
noble, just, and true.
Love conquers all, for romance readers.
I'm thirty now, and matronly,
unimpressed by extravagance and outward show,
by swains and swooning,
by stupidity or deception, by noble suffering,
by secret trysts or stolen kisses.
My love is my own, and it is glorious.
But sometimes I miss the stories