I Apologize With Fresh Supplies of Is

You rightly, quite politely, criticise my efforts at composing “pleiades”. What’s rare about revilings such as these is, blaming me for leaving out my “I”’s. The reason isn’t tricky to surmise. My arrogance supposes I, with ease, can conjure (with unthinking expertise) whatever I may please. Please don’t despise my failure to peruse the contest rules, for carelessness (the calling-card of fools) is what possessed me. That, I can’t disguise. Each time a fresh and feisty pair of eyes lands on my folly, one more pride-cell dies. Its silver magenta is shimmering warm-white in damson-dark center, ink-black like summer night; if clay turned inventor, it might spawn this dawn-light.