Is my voice destined never to be heard?

If it was, would people love a single word?

Must I continue, linger on, while no one listens to my song?

Is this my fate, to hold a placard at Heaven’s gate?

I write the words, I scrawl them in some haste,

I hurry up, I have no time to waste.

Many a rose, some poet said, is born to blush unseen.

Maybe one or two know what I mean.

Upon my tombstone, if I ever have one, words appear.

An unknown, unread, unloved poet lingers here.

De facto and de jure I am dead.

I might as well be.

My words left unsaid.

Or worse, unread.

Tich Ennis

22nd March, 2016