Their words fading into dust. Never recognized by their towns, how many great poets simply go unnoticed? How many laurels once destined to be golden merely rotted on the vine? There shall always be scribes with more recognition, but every poet is a constellation. Give me a poet whose footsteps ring into the night, wandering these same streets in search of life. I’ll never sound like the poets I love, because I learned to love them well after I learned to rhyme. I’d like to fill the shoes of those who came before, but I was born at the end of time.