‘All those secrets you’ve been concealing; say you’re happy now, once more with feeling.’ -Sweet
Commiserations, dictate I state,
For you and your blank slate, it’s fated. I am not a mistake.
Miss it as though it has taken your identity with it. A piece of it, at least.
Mourn it as you would a loss; if only for a minute, give it time.
I, still lament. Mixed feelings, spent batteries, broken drives.
You, your weapon of war, survive.
Fumbling for the right key, regretting every fob.
Whisper ‘Tabula rasa’, and the words, sweets, do their job.
For every forgotten sonnet, and stolen soliloquy;
Singing in the marshes by campfire; one S’more with feeling.
On the toes and shoulders of giants,
It’s precisely why Atlas shrugged.
To infringe upon, defying reliant.
He and art, my, they hugged.