Poet's Epitaph

"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.