A third one cometh, can’t you see?

Have I unlocked poets within me?

Now to expand on what I know:

The language still avoids my show;

And when I try to tilt its hand,

With a modern eye, it bears to stand

In triumph over all I knew,

Poetry passed, whilst running anew.

A gate surpassed, now I begin

(To perhaps other’s chagrin)

Another story, a better life,

Within which lies a different strife;

Do not display stars above your heads,

In lieu, I pick upon the threads

Of a tome wove out of silk,

Of better words, and better built,

For no diamonds I hold in me,

Where here I lay claim to honesty;

I’ll tell you this, as I move on,

My lady-hand holds on too long,

She frets not about such rhythms neat,

But focus lies on words so sweet;

If she does not have finer imagery,

Or meaning complete with irony,

Or that way the scholars did,

When sentences strayed from the fit,

Could she still be right in time?

I will find that place sublime,

Where linguistics past and present declare

The way forward, my words their stair.

For now approach with care, my friend,

As the poem begins, so the poem will end…

The End

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