This master-work of yours,
This magnum opus,
This poiema,
Is sat in his underpants
In a neglected and untidy flat,
Typing on a laptop he bought with some of his redundancy money.
His youth: behind him
And an early grave ahead
And all his aspirations
Have become expirations.
And the divine light came to him one day
not so long ago,
As he questioned your artistry,
As he judged the fruit of your work,
'What the hell kind of poem is this?'
A masterpiece? Seriously?
And the light whispered to him,
Breathing illumination
Into his stopped up ear,
"It's more than a poem"
It's a story, and it is not over yet.
Moreover, it is a story, You are a story,
That I want to read.
As an author, you can appreciate that.
And I promise you,
Though you may never see it,
There's one Almighty twist,
That spins all on it's head.
I'll let you tell it from here
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