I haven’t found my star-crossed lovers,
nor any Copperfields or Twists.
The prince who finally discovers
the world cares not if he exists
has not yet made his grand appearance,
Still, seized with dogged perseverance,
I vie to call him to the page.
Pen down, I channel hope and rage
into the thankless sheet of paper.
Try as I might, though, words won’t flow,
and what at first appears to glow
disintegrates to ash and vapor,
mild echoes of another’s dream.
Why bother? Cannot write like him.
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