"Xanadu of Oranges", the reporter wrote,
just one of many paper slips and notes,
left behind when the poet died, unquote.
To his very last moment, he had hopes
that he could write that one poem so supreme
in its cadence and rhyme, in its meaning
so sublime, that no one could miss his dream.
No one could misinterpret, none seeing
his words could mistake intent or lament
that he had regrettably missed his mark
or remark, "derivative!",or really meant
much of his work as only so much dark
comment on a personal life of strife and grief.
No, he meant a poem to sweep you off your feet.