“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.