This poet from the 19th century
Is afraid of me. He's doomed to be
My precursor forever, or so it seems
He says, as his present turns to history
And he debates the sun and shadows with me.
I say they are only symbols, but he
Believes them lies, and it would be too easy
To leap where I do, to conclude, says he,
With hindsight's view, where he would always lose,
And those who would posthume would always choose
The latest iteration of the curve,
For time has not yet ended: There are still
Judgements. The poet and I are one will
For you, reader, the one we can observe.
