every poet the world deems great
has written an elegant legacy
dedicated to himself
tallying all his wisdom
as he glorifies in his shame
he decidedly exalts his ego
and spreads the infamy of his name
so my muse, accept my invocation
as I write myself into epic proportion
collecting the vast library of my life
I eagerly fold back the cover
of the first volume in mint condition
but as I open it I learn astonishment
every page shines in unblemished white
in my fearsome excitement
I **** each book carelessly off the shelf
tearing pages and breaking spines
as the discarded books crash to the floor
and when it is completed all I have
is a pile of broken futures
and only a slender volume represents
the object of my reckless search
this book now my chief treasure
I sit down at my cluttered desk
to incline my ear and listen
and discern what material is worthy
for inclusion in my great work of art
but I am shocked to discover
that the pages hold insufficient promise
except the whisper of future possiblilities
which I have just hurled into dust
in the grand tradition of yesterday
I must finish in the same way I began
every poet who has written
a heroic tale of self
has exausted all his wonder
and reduced his life to metred lines
the good things are all gone
and all that remains is bleak and empty
when seen in the light of dawn
