A Kind Of Romanticism

The Mutating Heart

Where I am in my life becomes clearer to me
When the time for reflection provides the least harm
To my truth fearing ego who wants to hear praise
Even though it’s not warranted. Truthfulness plays
Certain havoc with pride perfumed over with charm.
Is a morbid grotesqueness what I’ve come to be?

Perhaps I’m too idealistic for my good.
We conceive of perfection as not being real
So it’s in the beholder how it is defined.
There may be close examples if I am inclined
To transcend definition and learn how to feel
To maintain my existence in this humanhood.

Intuition remains a reliable tool
To dredge up the emotions that lie on the floor
Of the deep sea of darkness. And through intellect
What is found can be processed. I cannot neglect
The re-reviewing process though it is a chore
And I may end up looking much more like a fool.

I involve the collective in all that I do.
Every resource available equally shared
Is the way of the cosmos. I carry some weight
Because of my free will. It is not due to fate.
What should be done with truth is to let it be aired.
What is not for the many is much for the few.

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