What is it with this romanticism?
Will it follow me to the grave?
Will I be afflicted with it in the afterlife?
I’m well past the procreative years.
Why does this romanticism linger?
Is it imprinted in the soul forever,
Or stamped on my DNA to never go away?
It is said in death one has no voice box
And surely no reproductive organs,
But I think one has a spiritual heart.
Is that where romanticism starts
And remains eternally in some?
But not in womanless sages
Who might transcend the need,
Who might not have the imprint,
Who might be rare anomalies
Unlike terminally romantic me.
Bob Boyd