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Rated: E · Poetry · Writing · #2251164
A tragedy of letters
Tome at Last

An Author I was born to be,
and Arthur is my name.
With epic prose and poetry
I’ll seek all men’s acclaim!

But fame eludes the ardent scribe
whose grasp falls short of reach.
Smug editors respond with gibes,
his competence impeached.

Rejection letters closing in;
my dreams are all but dead.
Perhaps perambulation
will ease my aching head.

I chance upon a printing shop;
the side door stands ajar.
Since no one's there to bid me stop
I'll typeset my memoir.

I looked to make a work of Art,
a perfect lyric poem,
so slipped into the binding part
and made myself a tome.

Author's note:

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