In memories, dreams, reflections often come
The stuff that poetry is fashioned from
As quietly the poet contemplates
In hopes the inspiration he awaits
Will suddenly his seeking brain inflate
With notions that in sound and sense relate
And seem predestined once they’ve been transcribed
To be remembered always and world wide.
Regrettably, it rarely is the case
That poems come with such amazing grace
That they seem destined for eternal fame,
But join the ranks of verses halt and lame
Whose manuscripts lie crumpled in a bin,
And such is just the case that I’m now in.