How can I write here when the walls have poetry?
And my soul is satisfied
When art hovers in the air and dances free?
When the heart has been explored over scones and tea?
How can I write when Keats once live down the street?
And Shakespeare rests beneath my feet?
What is there to add to the words of the greats?
With all that has been explored between love and hate
Do I lay to rest my pen?