I find it rather funny
what changes with time,
yet it's also quite strange
what remains the same.

Though I have once claimed
to know my own flames,
I have still burned many things
and been baffled by the pains.

Though I know I used to say
I wanted such in my every day,
I must confess, I wish I knew
of thy rancor, vile ire and ado.

I once was puzzled, baffled,
by the very thought, addled;
that hasn't changed very much
I fancy thy antics yet less than thy touch.

Thou, who claim'th to be so selfless,
who are so caught up, pitiful and helpless,
bound by neurotic, insecure delusions;
a harlot of Shadow, subconscious profusions.

It is not of a person, but of an archetype
within which I find inspiration to write,
yet, I can't help but ascribe to it a name;
a face to complete this linguistic game.

I'm not upset, just motivated,
I do not want this celebrated,
yet here I sit, still dominated,
evermore irked and captivated.