By Laura Ditto
I’m chased into a waltz by Whitman,
while Wilde hounds my head.
Their words live on in memory,
even when they are long dead.
As I sit in stupor,
and writing wracks my brain,
I remember those who came before,
and begin to feel quite sane.
Sappho taught me how to love,
Poe showed me my grief,
Service gifted nature,
and they all gave me relief.
I live by words unspoken
and leave my own to pages.
Perhaps if someone finds them,
they too will live for ages.
If Homer told traditions,
and Shakespeare defined play,
then words create beginnings
that never shall decay.
