The I of Each Is to the I of Each

A kind of fretted speech, like a grill or a guitar,
A wee dram of unexpected
Complications near a small, unpointed  star.
You can get carried away with your wanton

Comparisons, your allusions to worlds
Of fervor you never, will never know.
But strum a chord and feel self-gratified.
The world is cruel enough. Be glad before

You sigh.