We always say that romance is dead,

Rotting, a corpse with a hole in its head.

Why indulge in the lies that we're fed,

That romance had swam in shoes made of lead?

We are blind,

                           unkind.

                     If we had half a mind,

We would see that romance follows its kind.

So even though past words bastardize,

Sit with new lenses, think, and theorize

How to bring back a norm of its grandiose size.

Find the fatal wounds and figuratively cauterize.

Live with greatness and kindness and passion and glee.

Contradict, and you are no better than he

Who states that romance couldn't possibly be

Brought back from the dead, for "It hasn't graced me."

Instead, act as if its been arisen

And free this man from his closed-minded prison.