Neglecting thee, poetry

“Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.” (Dennis Gabor)

It was never my aim, but due to the weariness
And diffidence that suffused my every pore,
It felt then a searing necessity.
To retain my illusion of integrity.
You reproach that I cruelly pierced so my core, 
As a finicky creature that unscrupulously
Follows solely the trace of shallow glory.

It is not factual, there was no vile nonchalance
In my injustice, only a flimsy theory,
Adorned with consequential impotency.
That if I could somehow outbalance 
The overwhelming sentiments I possess for you,
I would finally discern a ray of blissful placidity
In the thorny path of my flawed destiny.

I had loved you so long that I ached with longing
At every sight of delicate flower kissed 
By diaphanous and unfairly evanescent butterflies.
I had loved you with such depth 
That with every taken breath
I recoiled with despair thinking I got lost in you,
As my life oozed anthems of hope in which every letter
Drew in me Calliope’s, Erato’s and Polyhymnia’s visages.

I have never figured that abandoning in berserk oblivion
The force that parried with utopian felicity 
My impuissant melancholy,
My flow of inner heaven will dry and the alluvium
Of pragmatic ego will, ashamed, crave the romantic
Ego handcuffed in the diary where not once pedantic
I kept you only within. 
Today, I embrace you forever. Neglect again? Never will.

The photo’s source

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