What will I become?
A peddler of cliched relics?
Full of lukewarm sonnets
That will fade unreceived?

Where must I stall?
At some worn-down peak
Where the whole world has stormed
Before, I’ve even set out to climb?

Dried out
A defeatist
And far from recognition
Friends and foes
Will take to the streets
In their thunderous relief

Once every fiber of me
That infests the pale page
Has scampered away

Then shall begin
The long-awaited heave
Of prosperity and rapture at last