Requiem For a Lost Specimen of Poesy

Into what wisp of cloud or clod did my poem flee? Into what minuscular pinch of diaphanous, free-floating empyreal, stratospheric air did my figurative furled parchment disappear? Where are those poignant yet comic, yet weird and allusive and furtive and outrageous and oddly touching and haunting and charming and outlandish and wonderfully lame words that I wrote? Why did I not, as I wilt with this, assay to make some few or sundry copies of them? Why did not my cursor flick and flit over them, and my highlighter underscore and envelop them in its oddly circumvallatory way? Why did I not behave upon these things, to actuate them, to do my bidding- The only way I might have safeguarded and given due survival to these, my "children"? Children of an oddly misshapen, half-formed sort, but lovable all the same: Loved with the authorial yet kindly and parental love of the writer, The poet, the author... They are missing, they are gone-and who but I, in my callow, thoughtless reckless irresponsibility; who but I mourns them? I, who unwittingly made their death happen? (Yet, 'twasn't another, other than me, another agency, also blameworthy and complicit in these "deaths" and disappearances? In these inverse deletions and erasures? Wasn't some draconian governing body passing equally draconian and abstruse, unknown and unknowable, laws...were they not also to blame? Where is the justice and the mercy and the forgiveness and the pity for the ignorant? For, in this case, myself? I, who almost was a victim, myself?)