It's now the fashion and the norm
To crush all hope in politics of fact.
It's seen as smart to bleed all love from form
And exchange courage for cautious tact.
Accuse me then, of making all this up,
Victim to my own dogmatic heart.
Call me weak and bruised, a wounded dupe,
In love with love, or worse, in love with hurt.
Though thoughts not facts are what infatuate us,
Romance is not without its healthy frictions.
A love free of its risks and threat of madness
Is craftless; empty of imagination.
No art lives uprooted from a ground of truth,
Theory's theory regardless of any proof.
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