An Apology.

This poem means nothing more than what it means. Neither a sobbing widow, nor a puerile flirtation with itself. It is simply a pretentious babel of redundant debris, one might even suggest a decadent piece of non-fiction that tends to regard itself as higher than it is. Regardless of that self-regarding existence, it is a demonstration of the poet's inaccurate senses and self-disappointing, remorseless delusion. And here it begins:


An Apology


If I touched your heart more than a thousand times
Wonder not, my safe port, wonder not if ‘tis love.
Sometimes we speak and hear of different things
Becoming some other things altogether, maybe
Becoming an inverted reflection of its own self —
What can I say, against this millennia-old theory?
Can I prick its old-fashioned argument and make it bleed?
Can I plead to its avant-garde concept a day-long passion?
Can I shadow myself inside some burrow and avoid
The most realist of confrontations, therefore winning you?
Ah, but you’re no prize and I am no hero.
Wonder not, then, wonder not if ‘tis love or flame or fire
If for a brief moment doubt burns your innermost desire.


Here written by the faithful Finnegan H. Blake, Our Majesty's ruthless bard (awfully tedious too).