Is it the endless possibility
forged in the stream of creation?

Is it because we know
that our job as poets
will never be done,
and those poems won’t write themselves?

A combination of those
leads to stagnation,
the unwillingness
to accept a spot
in the pantheon of heightened thought.

Those people who wrote their works
and died long ago
are the same people now,
just in different clothes.

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