If you care to take a while, and wander through my poetry,
you will unearth a serious defect in my personality;
politically incorrect... for sweet romance, is all to me;
in love with the idea of love...
these days, to some... pure blasphemy.

And further, to compound this fault...
condemned by modernist ideas
of self-gratifying conquest...
scant romance found there, I fear;
but, then... the Predatory Male, appears to me, both coarse, and blind;
I too, may want your body...
but, also...
I desire your mind.

It's all a question of respect...
of attitude... of empathy.
No urge to be one of the boys...
preferring feminine company.
Adoring females of all ages... slim or cuddly; tall... petite...
each has her own alluring charm...
so different,
yet, so complete.

I have no time for those, amongst my sex who feel they must demean
romance...
with Weasel words of love, they neither really feel... or mean.
To bed the Lady with all haste; no prologue...
just the sweaty sprawl;
no soft caress of her emotions...
thus, do they betray us all.

This, then... a sort of Requiem, for how romance is meant to be.
Expression of the sentiments...
the temper of sweet mystery.
Consideration of emotions, others have...
not just your own:
the breathless touch of fingertips...
of sweet delights, as yet unknown.

You may well say I am a dreamer, and, with you I would concur;
but... my world of dreams and hopes...
or yours...
which one would you prefer?
My world of thoughts will not betray you,
hurt you... or, your trust, defile;
the very worst that it can do
is leave you, with a wistful smile.