She longs for the praise of being a Great,
The one whose words ring loud from the dusty, lone graves,
The one who is praised and adorned with roses - no thorns,
The enchanter who baffles both girls and boys.
We long to be great, eternal, and pure,
Dreams of pedestals and elegance,
Of never feeling cold,
For we know it's so true - Greats never get old.
The Greats of the world who fought with no more than a pen,
Their thoughts and ideas for us - not them.
Dickenson and Plath, the Greats so tall,
Bishop or Boland the list carries on,
The Greats show their pain as the world watches on,
Quill drawn for the battle so long,
The peril of longing and the need for more,
All the Greats - they were great - must have felt it before.
