To be a poet is to walk among past giants,
To write is to scamper betwixt their footprints,
As they feast in their halls,
Subsisting on crumbs dropped from on high,
Vermin in their literary Valhalla,
A rat amidst their feet,

There is no beanstalk to their heights,
Shakespeare and Shelley,
Bronte and Poe,
Colossal wordsmiths and Einherjar bards,
They earned their places here,
I have not,

I came to climb to their zeniths,
Trying not to get stomped on,
Barely a flea in contrast,
To their elephantine labours of text,
My works are rock paintings,
Ink on seashells childishly spent,

In this land of giants,
I am but a neophyte,
I’ll likely never achieve the apex,
But why not keep climbing?

Comments
  1. Amen! Yes, we are as writers poets we are Always willing apprentices..VERY well done. You rocked this extended metaphor. Brava!!

  2. tara caribou says:

    lol this is clever, I like it

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