Poet- The Ingrate (2006)

Neither am I unsure, nor do I disregard,
The fact that life changes like love itself.
But how can I deny that this poet
Who once was a burning flame, is now
Just a firefly; far too tame?

There were days when I wasn't a consumerist.
Nor was I a slave to a structure
Of regulations to make dire ends meet.
Flambuoyant was I. Far too strong to
Consider the sun. I was my own sheet and its light.

Now I am a mere bolt in the slouching structure;
A beast of decorum and critical economy.
The only saving grace? I am in love!
Yes I am, But does that mean I cease
To be an eccentric which gave me an identity?

I am Poet- The Ingrate, who discarded the
Skin moulted and roughened against
The edges of basic compulsions, and
Myriad death wishes, to have a "better life."
At least that makes me write now and then.

I am guilty much more than Judas could be,
He left the holy blood for silver; but me?
I deserted my art for a convenient cause;
Hid my pen and verse without remorse!
Who can be a greater sinner than me;
As I live and die that the structure can be?