There were times when I felt

Like an acolyte at his feet,

Staring up admiringly

At the Master's face,

Waiting for the occasional

Acknowledgement and

Infrequent pat on the head.

At other times generously

Admiring a word or two

I had innocently placed

in some pleasing order: 

He was a comrade in arms

A prolific masterful poet

With such generous gifts

Of brotherly recognition.

He could frighten me too

With some firm assertation

Of some abbrasive political

Ideal or notion quite opposite

To my own understanding.

And of course he had a life

That was separate from poetry

Of which, to me, he spoke little.

So the Master in my head

Was born of brilliant words

That sparkled on the screen

Lit by the selected tiny pixels

He was prepared to ignite

In front of my reading eyes.

I imagined that when he ascended

He would leave a vacuum

In my life that even Time itself

Would find hard to fill.

I would be left grieving

The memory of a mountainous

Brilliant and generous man

Who I myself had annointed

As a guro of great poetry.

It turns out my imagination was spot on.

© Griffonner 2026