enlarged cerebral ventricles

If romance is humanity’s tragic flaw,
Then what is to be said of greed? Of hatred?
Of indulgence in the sins of our fathers?
Are these perfections? Are these joyous
Sounds resonated through the speakers of a looming
Death with no one to hold, with nothing but the reminder
Of the mind’s company kept with itself, brooding over
The sacrifices it had made to avoid the error of love,
To reach the precipice overlooking the pernicious gyre,
And fall to the death of inability to feel nothing, and the
Birth of overly calculated behavior amending the ways
Inside the brain’s ventricles, the surging waves of thought,
Where all is enlarged, growing until the final break from world,
Into the soupy malleability of reality, and the reoccurrence of a
illustrious presence in a Universe that has no affection,
No arms to hold the head of the morbid dreamer.