Here it rests
this shadow of ink
a scratched silhouette
incompetence, I think
gazing upon giants
of then and now
toiling through verses
they've steadily ploughed.
And
I with pen
sit in wings
awed by how their silence sings
wishing not to follow,
but walk among.
But how could my words
ever be sung
when I'm not strong
enough to lift a worthy pen.