Not Chaucer, nor Milton,
not Shakespeare nor Pope,
not Wordsworth nor Larkin
ever had a hope.

Like conquistadors
in search of Incan Gold,
they plundered the language
for its treasures untold.

But amongst all their spoils
the greatest was missing,
El Dorado lay hidden;
poem perfecta – still missing

Their talent and doggedness brought them close;
they hauled golden words from the undergrowth
but their words’ imperfections made them morose.
Beautiful and flawed – their poems were both

But now that these great makers
are with the greatest of all,
the mysteries of our world
have been revealed to them all:

They know a verse can’t be perfect
if more are to follow.
When the perfect poem is licked
There will be no tomorrow.

It will be written by one known and unknown,
He who sees all and can all things transcend.
When He lifts up His pen and finishes His poem
the poets will smile and the world will end.

– Niall R Hurley

Image, “Apocalypse”, by Xava Du sourced from Flickr under the Creative Commons license.