This is an epic poem
and you will praise it at its end.

You will beg for more,
be undone, and beg for more again.

You will not be able to live without it.

You’ll realize your life was empty and meaningless
until your eyes laid upon its pages.

You will wish you wrote it
but know you never can,
because a poem like this, the best,
only comes along when
I write it.

I digress.

The masses shall read this in awe
and worship the perfection
of each and every line
and syllable
planned
penned
perfectly, so

easily.


Scholars; yes you, from far in the future.
You find this work brilliant
and say the author was ahead of his time.

Scoffing at Shakespeare;
“Shakespeare who?” You question;
as does everyone else because now
this is the only work in classrooms.


This which is mighty.
This which is sound.
This which lifts itself upon the world
and is sung aloud, to all around.

Authors, writers, poets -
so many dead, so much literal suicide
at the realization of perfect words
rendering their life’s work obsolete.


This poem;
this poem.


Annihilation, murder, assassination
upon all the other poems ever penned.

Bloodshed, butchery, and carnage
at the hands of a once thought friend.

Death, destruction, oh so dispatched
are all the things that you’ve said.

Foul play, a felony, homicide
to the work that used to bring you bread.


Your talents have been liquefied,
your thoughts lynched from your brain.
Each and every poet slayed;
massacred just the same.


Here, for you, a one-way ticket to Out.


Don’t be so hard on yourself,
you never could have known.
Who imagines such magnificence
will come along in their lifetime?
You are humbled.

Exalt thee,
exalt thee poem.
“We exalt the poem.”

Cattle.

This poem lifts you higher to your demise
for your eyes cannot see such beauty,
such wonder and sophistication without
surely going blind from disbelief.

Your hand cannot reach mine,
the one that penned the greatest work
to ever, ever be.

I am this poem.
I am truth,
the only truth.

Believe me.


You come to me, bow to me.
You follow me
and all my teachings
and when I say lay down and die,
you will do so happily;
reassured that I am with you
in your mind, being read by you
to help you sleep.
I am this poem.

You smile, thinking of me waiting for you on the other side.

This poem waits for you when you die,
not with open arms
but as an open pearly gate.

You will spend eternity
reading me;
blissful.

This poem,
lays its command upon you
and you gleefully obey.

I, this poem, should be 1695 pages and
a thousand stories more
just to show you a glimpse
of my magnificence; mortals.

Two pages is all I need.

I, this poem, an immortal
shall stand the test of time
while you wither away,
petty human,
wishing you were me.

With only two words I’d still be,
the best damn poem alive.

Bow before me,
pay your respects.
Praise me like I said you would.

Love,
this poem.

10/07/2012

Author's Note: Rate, comment and thank the poem.

Posted on 10/07/2012
Copyright © 2024 Jody Pratt