if they could keep up

there would be space

along the shoreline of the sea

for those poseurs to find

a place where they could step out

and come and join you and me

in space made for originality

alas, their vessels are dry

no lifeblood pumps for the

vein lack the iron and oxygen

to spin strength of words to

endure against the elements

and the air to breathe life

into the fallowest of phrases

ultimately, they do come to

set down upon the shore

drowned and lifeless echoes

corpses of the corps of copiers

Xeroxed forlorn piles repetitive

and destined to disintegrate

into the sameness of the sands

that support the only place

where they can rest

illuminated

in the sun.