The Country of Romance

With words I speak my doubt, What can I say all hollowed out. Of yet to see and not to. In desperation my thoughts continue. A ruptured task, I'm surely past. All that I knew would never last.
A disease of words, a murder of crows, a conversation of pacts, a simile grows. Collective nouns a wonder in passing. All that we wish is there for the asking. Words associate, we show to work. A useful thought to insulate. The rope that ties we become, just what we hate. Down our thoughts we dance with glee, truth seldom wrought if you see what I see. A running list of propensity. A sickness of mind that delivers this truth that never surface in the follies of youth. That come only with age and a deal of experience. Some things we remember are never interference only folly and fools jumping a gate of deliverance.
Now heed this well you commentators of truth. The country of romance is not the prerequisite of youth.