An Inconsequential Odist

Not a poet, I make a few words rhyme.

For ballads, elegies, and sonnets take a long time.

In this short life, lasting but a few moments,

Is there one that we can call our prime?

Like the bards ago who thrilled, ne'er did last.

Dwelt a season of hope, or despair, and passed.

Their lives, a flit, like the blink of an eye:

Years and years that fly by, just too fast!

So will my verse, in the ether, disappear

Ones I cherish today, ones I hold so dear.

Yet, there'll be many who come along tomorrow

Daydream rhymes of joy, of love, and sorrow

They will surpass anything I could every say

Have far better readers than you, who follow.

So why would anyone care about what I write

Nay, why should they hold my view or insight.

Not a poet, I make a few words rhyme

For ballads, elegies, and sonnets take a long time

In this short life, lasting but a few moments

Is there one that we can call our prime?