Blockage of the third eye,
plagued with lack of inspiration,
I implore the will of my Goddess
to send her muses to me.
The universe, in quick reply,
gifts a poem I know well,
'Ozymandias', a tale of futile
immortality and pride.
It is then the thought does cross
my mind, I too am Ozymandias,
monarch of a land beaten to sands
by industrial era mechanical hands.
I craft my poems with mortar and brick
feigned ignorant to knowing this:
despite my ostensibly altruistic ambitions
of a legacy that stems
towards ageless relevance
birthed by poignant poetry,
my words will never last.