Will You Forgive Me?

Hapless as wistful tale of broken chord, unborn,
My soul doth travel, forsaken and encumbered,
By a phantom memory that creeps, stealthy, yet unhindered,
Through mine blinded windows, in its seething despair, my sensibility doth warn.

In crumbling autumnal maples, my soul beseeches to reach thy deep tawny,
A Rare brown showeth their intricate dance, but they match thy curious eye not,
Hazel, coffee and flaming amber, thy specialty have but ephemerally caught
Maroon, Auburn and pale ginger, shan’t ever be as severe as thy vivid near-mahogany….

Delirium doth descend, it is slow a chant,
So wild is the tendency, love, dually strong and tender,
In me is born the shy riddler,
All is now an incoherent stupor.

But in between the lines, you shall find,
An apology written with determined a hand,
Although cunning impatience had plagued,
Unforgiven poetess decided to write a hundred.

In life-blood it had written for thee,
Poems, not just a three,
A hundred, it hath reached century,
Lament hath reached the inflamed skies, the soul is sorry!

It has burned in pure a flame,
Has been toy to guilt’s hungry teeth,
Writing fingers have been fevered by passion
You have turned haunting inspiration.

So, today, the writer sanctifies,
In her words, you shall be idolized,
And as her sorry, she proclaims,
Forgiveness, she seeks, with remorse, intense.

She’s written you a hundred, staying up midnights,
Hoping that thou shall bless the blinded eyes, show it some light,
May you shine upon the unforgiven poetess that is me,
And cure her of her agony.

There have been but a hundred songs, which have in different ways screeched,
The singular word, repeating,
A sorry is all they say, each and every one,
Please, friend, will you forgive me?