“Infatuation blinds,” I say to self,
“Like flashbulb spark or midday sun unleashed.
It scorches past untouched by care or stealth
And leaves remorse for souls to slowly piece.
If lacking fuel, it seems to vanish not,
But feeds on hope, on faith and arduous wish,
Which is, though deep, but only worldly thought
That drains away like any worldly dish.”
Yet I am deaf to all my self-reproach.
Its wisdom, logic, cold unbiased truth
Negates ere leaving mind’s cool reasoned touch.
I follow flights of fancy as in youth.
Though hazards plague each tender unformed link,
My heart hears only that which beats in sync.