45. Apology
What am I to ever think that you could love me?
This old fogey past his prime
is nothing but a wretched wreck,
an invalid who never lived,
a sorry and pathetic caricature
of a fool who always and persistently deceived himself
and lost himself to vanities of ephemeral dreams,
temptations without end and without sustenance
that filled my life with nothing except losses.
How could I expect, then,
that anyone could love me?
How could anyone be asked to love a dream?
You do not love it. You just dream it.
And when the dream is over, you forget it.
Some say you should fall in love as many times as possible,
have love affairs and even some engagements sometimes
but be married just for once or never
or at least as rarely as possible;
but I was married from the start
to the idealism of beauty and of art
and ended up this parody like some odd fart,
so just forget me: I was born a hopeless case
unqualified for love and life,
a dreamer and no more himself than just a dream,
for others no more than perhaps an alien
to condescendingly at most think kindly of at times.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2006-08-26 at 14:07
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