Who discovered poetry,
I just want to shake his hand,
Maybe pour him a coffee, black, no sugars,
Ask him if it grew as planned.
We would talk of rhyme scheme and message,
Of poet after poet we would converse,
Maybe, speak of his discovery,
Yes, of his very first verse.
What inspired dissonance,
Propelled personas past perfect alliteration,
Maybe touch on rhyme and onomatopoeia,
If we have a second, personification.
His hair would probably be a wise grey,
His sandals, won from travelling the sands of time,
His suit of fine cloth, his taste exquisite,
A man of his stature must have many a dime.
A deep look would cover his face,
Each and every time he answered a question,
His, words profound, his diction meticulous,
Giving every syllable undivided attention.
He’d probably have a way with words,
That no other man could,
Vowels, and consonants would be his slaves,
Rarely would he be misunderstood,
I would watch him as he walked away,
Gracefully diminished until he disappears,
Watch the wind cleans his footsteps from the earth,
And patiently wait for the day he reappears.