I would hope that one day my work

Were like a bridge to the classics.

That a reader would pleasantly love my verse

And start reading more.

 

Though, on a second glance

After reading those daunting litterateurs

There will be a realization of how poor my craft is.

That my writing, being a bridge,

Brought you to the banks of a better shore,

And my writing was simply a boat that got you there.

Soon, I would wane in significance

As the reader began tasting the treasures I have tasted.

 

However, when reading over my verse,

There will still be joy,

Like an adolescent writer jotting down journal points

Which are read some years later.

 

My poetry, compared to the old masters

Is like an adolescent.

It is hard to put down when youths,

But into our blooming years of success

It becomes a sort of gesture to smile upon.

 

I would like to be smiled upon

By my readers, years after I have been read.

Not as something emulating or imitating old masters

But as someone filling a void in literature that might

For as long as there are letters,

Never be filled again.