There it is right in front of me
the perfect poem
like a silk thread tapestry
woven by the hands of a master.
My eyes are in disbelief
at how it meanders on the page
glowing as I bask in its structure
the sheer clarity
as I discover the workings of his mind.
as I stutter
wading through his old verse
this mad scientist of the past
cutting words and dicing them.
Pulling them apart
and making them dance like a puppeteer
with stanzas hanging from a string
the simple intrusion of the great crowd pleaser.
Arranging them and stretching the syllables
wrenching the vowels
throwing commas like daggers
into this idea of a poem.
And he must have stood above it
the finished product admiring his creation
wondering if death should follow his greatest success.
and fading in a whimper
the last scuppered words
'my work is done'.
But no such luck for me
as I drag my pen through the drivel
the mundane flicker and fuss
of a mind full of rust.
And I hope someday
far off in the future
I finally clear out the clutter
in the broken down mind.
And shout eureka
as I find that same elation
relief that I'm finally done.
When I paint my masterpiece