Dear Tolkien, We Haven't Met

I myself ramble endlessly.

I write line upon line that breed irrelevance in their time.

I myself ramble needlessly.

I cry out on every page, hoping to catch the attention of some old sage.

I ramble endlessly.

I read your books once, yes, once or twice.

I've read going now on more than thrice.

Everytime they catch my eye, I see something,

Something new that to last time, I was blind.

The many details hidden between each other,

The way they flow instead of blunder.

The words form themselves in a neat little way,

Maybe that will be me someday.

But now, right now, me?

I myself ramble endlessly.