Once more, I rewrite
a line of poetry
from one of the great poets
as one would meticulously retrace
the outlines of an image.

The placement of each period,
the choice of a particular word,
if one of these were amiss,
it would be all for naught,
but my!
How each word, each line
supports the other,
what beauty!

Ha!

What beauty indeed!
The more I know,
the more it burns
like celluloid!
Fuelling anguish in my heart!
And oh dear!
What a jealous heart I have!
Surely, others must feel the same.
Is it so hard to discern beauty?
Can we not read?
Yet why is it so elusive to recreate something
even a fraction as eloquent?
Do we not spectate the same Earth?
Such mockery!
To recognize such and be unable to recapitulate it!
All things of significance
have already been written.
All else is imitation!
And how much more it aches to know
that I am a cheap one at that!

At least just once in my life,
could I not write just one line
equal to this?
I do not ask for much.
Just one line!
Then I could proudly brandish
whatever mediocrity I amount to,
like a brand burnt into my flesh.