A Dress Too Wild for Logic’s Thread

Is it my fault I shiver so—beneath the frost of humankind? 
Where warm illusion used to glow, now mockery and doubt unwind. 
I seek no praise in shallow ground, no joy in laughter lined with price, 
Yet every dream I dare to sound is weighed beneath cold reason’s ice. 

They say that love must bear a tag, stitched tight in practicality— 
And call me lost, or worse—a rag of Shakespearean frailty. 
But if to long is “mad,” then so—let madness be my saving grace, 
For sterile hearts may never know the thrill of starlight’s wild embrace. 

Must I be “normal”? Dim my flame to keep from burning too alive? 
Must every kiss be just a game in Darwin’s will to procreate and thrive? 
Yet even beasts know how to ache—for touch beneath the silver moon, 
While we, in suits, our spirits fake, and trade sweet songs for fiscal tune. 

Oh, where’s the blanket, soft and red, that caught the wine we used to pour? 
The cherry blossoms overhead—do lovers lay beneath them more? 
Or has the world grown far too wise, too skeptic-eyed, too proud to bend, 
To know that love, in foolish guise, may be the only truth that mends? 

So let them scoff. I shall not wear the tailored suit of muted breath— 
I’ll don my dress of tempest air and waltz with ghosts who conquered death. 
Let me be ruin, let me be rhyme, let me be wild in how I feel— 
For all that’s logical is time… and love, my dear, is something real.