But the players aren’t willing to revel in the suspense.
There’s many a tide that makes hardly any sense,
Taken at many a flood viewed through a deeper lens.
The placid waters have taken a notorious turn,
As we drink in the drops in our attempt to learn,
What lies beyond the ocean we tend to discern,
Is an eternal drama uncovering plenty of urn.
The fun of it all is in the judgments of art we take,
To confuse plotted journeys for reality’s sake,
There ain’t a mask we’re ready to make,
Dripping with abundant emotion to make a deserted lake.
When Naturalism plots a plot-less path of laze,
Romanticism entwines it to form a startling maze,
Burdening our mind in a scurrying trauma of craze,
And blowing the cobwebs in a frenzy to amaze.
The choices we make have a massive stake,
As our lives leap in flight in the closing wake,
And dance to the romance of a terrifying make,
As Romanticism cuts the cake we’ve set to bake.
Destiny’s shape has taken on a darker twist,
As it’s now covered in glory in a heavy mist.
‘Twas not hitherto defined in my weirdest list,
But my life is now dotted with bountiful tryst.
Published in ‘The Copperfield Review’:Kindling Romanticism