When Blake wrote his words
And colored them into image
Do you think he knew
That hundreds of years later
We would still be reading them
Do you think he knew
Centuries forward
We would still be singing his songs of innocence
And experience
I wonder
If our curiousity about his work
Pleases him
Or if maybe
He rolls in his grave
Sick of hearing his own art
On replay
Maybe he is laughing
Because we are trying
Too hard
Over-analyzing
Too much
I wonder
If he ever imagined
His poetry would live on for so long
Still continue breathe
Long after he stopped
I wonder
If he knew
It would remain alive
Even when he was not
I wonder
If any of the greats
Knew just how great they really were

Did Shakespeare understand
The potential in his pen
In his ability
To turn blood into ink
Did he know
How many decades could live
In just one short sonnet
And that one single story
Could become universal
Maybe he too
Is puzzled by our wondering
Maybe he didn't think
As much as we do
Maybe
He just did
Without thought
I often question
If we question too much
If we twist simple into complex
Make things more complicated
Than needed
All too often

If every writer
Who wrote our stories
Knew how much
We would become them
I wonder
If they would have written them
In the first place

I would like to think
They would
That they knew
Of the beauty
In challenge
That they wrote
With reader in mind
And the hope
That you
Will find it.