by Nick Gisburne
I see you, Mister Shakespeare. Here we are,
The ghost of someone greater than us all,
And I, the grim pretender. Just how far
Could any words I whisper creep or crawl?
Your sonnets have a majesty, but mine
Are filled with dark and devastating truth.
Corruption cracks the form, each twisted line
A torment, resurrected from my youth.
I bleed these paper shadows as I sink
Beneath a frozen ocean of despair,
To revel in the misery, the stink,
But always, in the margins, you are there.
I do not strive to match or mock your name.
I write to fight, with fury, fear and flame.
