I seek to emulate the greats,
Rub off on me, I hope, their traits,
Sharing some Longfellow tastes,
Dickinson, Whitman and Frost's days.
Walking into their hallowed homes,
Breathing in the smell of their tomes,
Pacing by the desks of oaken,
The air is filled with words unspoken.
I close my eyes and take it in,
In the turmoil, of where I begin,
I harbor no mammoth ambition,
Humbly, I set out on a poetic mission.