If I Were the Only Poet Left In the World Today

If I were the only poet left in the world today And all the great verses and rhymes of the past Were suddenly swept away in the awful crush Of today's destructive and cacophonous voices Were there only my paltry feeble lines remaining, Is there a single word or phrase worth forever? Maybe one, spanning a lifetime of humble musing When I measure me next to Angelou or Burns And what would that one memorable line be? Presumptuous to think that I might have written Something significantly of note to live in infamy Or be called to future's memory spoken thoughtfully.