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I love you Dostoevsky, I love you just the best.
Your poetics, prose, and playful words.
Your characters and all their mess.
Your women are funny and brave.
Your men deep and rich.
Your references and homages.
My adoration moves not an inch.

I owe Russia a big favor.
As to them grew your gift.
Your voice is my motivator.
The soul of Russia has me miffed.
Proud and noble are the actors.
Delightful are the conspiracies.
The twists and turns I do but yearn.
For conversations such as these.

To hold you high in esteem.
Is really no task at all.
May be this is a bromance trapped in a dream.
But you are gone and I live on.
Trying to be like you.
I write and rave for countless days.
And come up with something half past new.

I hate to gush and prattle on.
But your books have taught me much.
Pride and principles make this mon.
My mind you did but touch.
And if I have the writer’s heart.
Without the debts and fits.
I’ll reach the final deadline.
With almost all my wits.

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