Romantics always seem to want
to convert the unbelievers.
Baptize them with fermented embryos
taken from the wombs of vines.
Fill their hearts with prayers repeated incessantly
by all those involved in the religious exhibitionism
of what they call “love.”

They drown themselves in the short-lived ecstasy,
more addicting than the china-white nectar
distilled from middle-eastern weeds.
And yet the missionaries of this practice are never chastised,
never collected in the tide of endorphin smugglers
constantly rampaging the asylums filled with those whose shadow caught them tight.

These cultists commercialize to spread their dogma,
sweetly coating the dependency
constant battles and possible suicide
with views of delectable carnal delights that they use
to purposefully twist your infant-born tendencies
to shape your mind to fashion your groin.

This trap is hard to avoid as anyone will tell you,
even those who have passed the sacred rights
into life-long servitude of insubstantial thoughts.
Every society, every life, seems to be drowned
in the eternal search for infinite rush,
and I doubt you will ever be able to surpass it,
as no one ever has,
but if you are agile enough to dodge the bullets of eternal gratitude
you might be able to perish without a thought
of a certain someone always on your mind.