Sentia Talviotus

This mind, this heart,
The very one you tore apart,
Allow me to take the spotlight,
Yes, the limelight;
Take a seat,
For I will not miss a beat:

I’ve read your recent poems,
The first three, or four, all of them,
And I ought to keep civilised,
So I shall, as advised.

Opinions; such things that irritate us,
Despite our own desires to get lost
In the faux-professionale of critque:
Listen, for I shall speak.

Your self-indulgence, your self-pity,
The guilt and all-so-witty;
The techniques you borrow to maintain,
Thrive and of course, sustain
That little macroscopic germ of honesty
You tame and stroke in your fingertips
In the name of poetry.

Was it the game you lost?
A cup that’s half empty?
Who’s choice was it at heart’s cost?
Perhaps all in time; the all-so-lovely.
Your words against mine; peripheral?
Perennial? Somewhat ‘apocryphal‘?
All these moves, so delighted,
And let’s not forget the ‘sighted‘.

Now you get an internal facelift.
The ‘Queen of Hearts’ card, so jaded.
You’re delighted, so the results claim;
Well done, you’ve broken the chains,
But I recognise familiar cracks in your words,
Notice; you’re still under the curse.

You reckon you’re a sovereign,
But deep down you’re still suffering;
Let alone the doubtless selflessness
That ruptures behind that crack in the wall,

But let it be known to your jaded heart,
You have forgotten the art
of vengeance.


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