The Poem that will Make History

When I try to write a poem that will make history,

My pen mocks me.

Because the light of my little lamp,

casting shadows across the world,

has witnessed my crumbling glaciers.

When I search for a word

to replace its plebian,

Interest, owned by the hearts of

seeked-for pursuers,

shuts its mind in exasperation.

Like I'll never get it.

Like I'm the bird's beak

attempting to dry the ocean

of its waves of tears.

But the light of my little lamp

shifting shadows

from parchment to parchment

does not know that glaciers,

in all their crubling glory,

are beautiful.