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Artistically windswept or closely cropped
With such arrogance they stare at me
Daring me to criticise their vanity.
Those men from so long ago
Still have such power to sway me
To feel their presence even now
And care about what they had to say.
The artists made them live anew
And their words bring them back to me.
From brief lives of glorious glamour
Dying tragically far too young
Yet they seem to have only begun
Burning me with their fire.
How their ghosts still inspire
And seep into my soul
Those men long gone,
Yet my fascination only grows
They wander through my thoughts
And will not be dismissed.
They want me to believe their
Short existence was worth while
They need my love to warm their bones
Even in cold death they reach for my
Heart and I cannot refuse
Them and so I sigh.
But their force and attraction
Impels my adoration for
Those great men of action,
Those poets of yore
I worship from the future
And wish I could give more.
I wish to touch and embrace
To hear them speak or to praise,
And with necromancy raise
Their corporeal bodies back on earth
So I may experience the truth
Of their existence.