There is a reservoir of perfect words waiting to be touched,
But I cannot scale the dam.
I can't get up to this water of life,
No matter how profound I am.
There the greats sail,
The poets who shall survive
The erosion of time, but
Will I see this ocean whilst alive?
I can only drink their gilded overspill,
The aftertaste of nectar from the brim.
I must take in as much as I can
And store it deep within.
Would that I could grasp the heights
And stride the distance set before me!
I want this wall to hold fast against the tide,
But it's as impregnable as it shall ever be.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
There is a reservoir of perfect words waiting to be touched,
But I cannot scale the dam.
I can't get up to this water of life,
No matter how profound I am.
There the greats sail,
The poets who shall survive
The erosion of time, but
Will I see this ocean whilst alive?
I can only drink their gilded overspill,
The aftertaste of nectar from the brim.
I must take in as much as I can
And store it deep within.
Would that I could grasp the heights
And stride the distance set before me!
I want this wall to hold fast against the tide,
But it's as impregnable as it shall ever be.
A poem about potential, and how steep the climb is to the 'great poets'. We can only hope to imitate their genius, and aspire.
January 2016
