In the depth of the shadow that stretches when words are made sense of and then cast aside

In the depth of the shadow that stretches when words are made sense of and then cast aside, Silence dresses over our dreams, ethereal strands subtly strung and pierced through, Desire boils and yearns to be noticed, forgetting through its inferno, the purity of thought, On the throne of self-abandonment, philosophy is sidelined, silently, clandestinely sold. Love, we demand it as though a royal due, with an often blind and reckless zeal, At times, we pierce hearts that shared with us undoubted affection, On humanity's altar, their blood is wastefully spilled, ritually, without intoxication. Romanticism, we wish for it as a companion to an unbounded love, Even when aware that vipers peddle deceptive elixirs, glittery and deviant, Run from the whisper that seems too sweet to be true, When words sneak in clad in golden garments, yet prove to be hollow. Thirsty for the pure essence, not the empty sweetness, Reveal love in bodies that plant deeds, not ephemeral rhymes, In places that respond not with passwords, but with fearless truth. Find success in hearts that weave good unmoved, Not in deceitful whispers, but in hands that tirelessly sow respect and beloved. So, wander in chasms where words bring about no dress, In dimensions where feelings are woven into bodies, in gazes that know to speak wordlessly, Not in rose petals that detach at the slightest gust, But in souls that show love not in words but in desires that blaze at dawn.