An instant hits you quickly, shaking aptitude to mash.
And just like Erni Gil, I'm in the background of the flash.
You battle yearning, still. My figure, tauntingly robust,
Is blinking through illusion. Your condition is nonplussed.
A magnet. Planet. Magnate. Or whatever I've become
Detracts you from the mission of believing that I'm dumb.
The power shown by present has ability to send
A rash, demented, badness-fashioned fabulist an end.
Perhaps I wasn't quite the fool that history portrayed.
Perhaps your love of shunning flubbed what memory displayed.
My remnant has transcended prior attitude you clutched.
You want me once again, but I'm repining that we touched.