Death of Romance

The words form against my tongue with not
A destination given.
When thoughts sincere and clear surround my head,
Encircling like a crown of roses red,
I hear then, nonetheless, the dreaded voice, 
Both damned and blessed;
It chants relentless on, while closed are my ears to
The death-knell sound, bitterly devoid,
The chasm between reality and that
Which might have been.