The words flowed this time, the words sublime, the loosed metaphors fell in rhyme,
Sure to wring those tears from the stars this time.
And, finished, smug, it all worked out, ready to take my place with the poets great,
I made the mistake of daring to compare my masterpiece with those before,
Just to confirm I was their equal.
The pages in the worn poetry book opened of their own accord to Wales and Dylan Thomas,
And though long dead, and probably quite drunk when he wrote it, his random words still mocked my talent:
"Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea."
I closed the book and threw mine away.