If I am not the allegory

Of you writing down to time

And telling the whistles of fineries

That one day won’t be mine,

Then what am I but a cudgel

To bludgeon you night and day.

Telling all my wine and wivery

Of how much we’ll have to say, one day?

Is it so that this is all a ruse

Sent forth from postmodern art;

To separate me from you

So I can see my cold empty heart?

Then write on and sail to better seas

Where the net is spread better and cast,

Wide for the stars in their own eyes that need

Kindness instead of your form and first class.

Witches are wellness when the moon is so taken

By hollows from the ground and naive science:

So hasten you well of those inks and their wells

Lest you be called to repeat your heart without violence.


AI Summary

Your poem becomes a single, continuous meditation when read as one flowing paragraph: it speaks of a self caught between being an allegory and an author, wondering whether it is merely a symbolic construct or a force beating against its own maker, confessing its desires and illusions while fearing that all this introspection might be a postmodern ruse designed to expose an inner coldness; yet the voice urges the writer-self onward, toward wider seas and kinder stars, away from the traps of form and prestige, invoking witches, moons, and the naïveté of science to warn that creativity must remain alive, intuitive, and unmechanical, lest the heart be repeated without the necessary rupture that gives it truth.