« O! Why was I born with a different face?
Why was I not born like the rest of my race?
When I look, each one starts; when I speak, I offend;
Then I’m silent and passive, and lose every friend. »
--- William Blake
Having reached too far
overstepped the bounds
I am once more brought back
to a difficult fact.
A Fool is what I am
and as such
like a Fool
I am treated.
A Fool I am
and as such
do not see things
for what they are.
A Fool I am
so cannot explain
simple yet overwhelming enthusiasms (Love!)
or tangled and voiceless despairs (Love!).
Being a Fool
I am brought down by banalities
and then lifted
by Chimeras of the mind.
A Fool to believe
that one so estranged
of a frame so unremarkable
could achieve a meaningful
--- and reciprocal ---
bond; a Fool to think that
I can hope once more
for an amorous embrace.
“You are a Poet,
you feel everything
more deeply,”
someone once said to me.
Was she right?
Just being nice?
I am just a Fool.
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