"Sorry"
was said
on a non-existent plane.
Joy
succumbs
to over-whelming guilt.
So much for Burns, Wordsworth
and the bloke who wrote
Kubla Khan
high on opium.
Hello to Thomas, Larkin
and the married
Plath and Hughes.
So much of the
unromantic
deadened the pain
which pulsed so thick
through the breakable chain.
A slit of the
[I won't say it]
ends the night young.
We starve ourselves naked
never having begun.
So the rubber band
snaps,
tensions soar high
and they wander around
with their lies.
But I say sorry
on an imaginary plane
which not only does not transmit
but also does not suffice.
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