I’m not a great writer or a celebrated poet.
My truest title is chameleon and don’t I know it.
I mime and mimic the best from literature’s past,
restricted to the verbal fodder I’ve amassed.
My muted colors change more than
the foreign key rings on my night stand.
I imitate with the sincerest of flattery
because I am a flirt wooing all of history.
Genre, style, theme or form,
my pretty words are used to adorn
the lacquered, wooden frames that contain
original works of art, free of mental strain.