Note: I wrote this poem due to an emotional response that I got from reading E.M. Forster's Maurice, an excellent novel which I recommend to anyone. Anyway, I don't know how much sense this poem makes, but here it is.
Forster once wrote a novel
Back when the world was still young,
Back when our world was still being built.
Forster once wrote a novel
Highlighting our dreams and fears,
Everything that we could ever hope for
Back when the world was still young.
The world has grown old
In the course of a hundred years.
Now the light that once enlivened
Only burns, threatens, and sears.
Forster once wrote a novel
Back when the world was still young.
Oh, if only I had been a fly on the wall
While he composed his stylish prose!
The world that he composed
Was much like the one I live in today.
Life has gone on as it once was,
Men back then said what men today say.
Forster once wrote a novel
Back when the world was still young.
Back when our world was still being built.
Our world is built now.
Look at the travesty that we've created!
Men know nothing of Maurice's love.
They only feel passion and bodily lust.
Men only want one thing,
And that's not for what Maurice yearned.
Maurice's love was purer and nobler.
He fought so that we could have that,
Yet what we have is not the same?
Forster once wrote a novel
Back when the world was still young.
What his Maurice wanted is for what I yearn.
The love that he had is for what I burn.
Forster once wrote a novel
Back when the world was young.
Oh, if only he could write again
And remind us for what they built!