There is no Autumn in my fertile heart,
where nothing falls but must ascend like heat.
My greensome coloured leaves do not depart
from twigs and branches. Summer’s not complete.
No frost can come my way to freeze the dew.
The crops sown in my fields no harvest need.
For melancholy moments now are few
and flowers in my soul won’t “go to seed”.
Further into obscurity he goes;
far from the madding crowd he overthrew.
The myst’ry of this life’s arpeggios
has cauterized his earthly field of view.
There’s nothing left to be or to extol
(apart from things which cannot now be seen).
Now knowing who he is and what’s his role,
he exited the room and The Machine.
Romance is dead. Therefore, long live true love!
When all worth saying has been said, I raise
my hat and bow my head, remove the glove
which romance uses well to mask love’s blaze.
Romance, I now pronounce you dead and gone.
You once amused me with your froth and dreams
when I was young and hung my hat upon
a plethora of June-Moon-Spoonly schemes.