Writers are oft prone to delusions of grandeur,
Imagining that their tales will be told forevermore,
Hoping to be among the great bards of yore.
Yet, lest they forget, that the sea of words belong to none,
The battle that is finding the most right is never truly won,
A hummingbird, a borrower, a weaver of fabric never done.
Each syllable a skittish deer in the vast gardens of art,
Watching, yearning, and reaching for that perfect part.
But if you are fortunate, and if you are wise,
The cosmos of creativity may just align.
