ode to primordial poets

No new metaphors can come to mind

when I set out to newly define

that which has been sung about

by those who have come so long before

I was ever able to implore

or give a boisterous shout.

When time does allow my restless soul

to dwell upon what I must extol

like sunsets and a rolling sea

I find that words and prose already said

by people who are already dead

convey superiorly.

And so I reach with desperate hand

to clutch onto just a single strand

of this envied beauty possessed

by primordial poets firsthand

and hope I do not misunderstand

what bore poetic progress.

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