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.
22nd March, 2016