Five centuries ago, there was no Bill
Shakespeare. Cervantes. No Voltaire. Moliere.
Chaz Dickens hadn’t breathed and Ariel
had not left Shelley’s corpse in Leghorn Bay.
Lord Byron’s foot was not the club, his will,
stomping jealousy into the fair.
Elizabeth and Robert weren’t ‘The Swell
and Portuguese’ that we still praise today.
Now they’ve all come and gone and left behind
just scraps of what they said, pinned to the page.
One day I’ll follow them. What will I leave?
Just pages of my own, unloved, unsigned?
I hope to leave great stories. Plays to stage.
Words for future authors to quote and thieve.