Dark corner
of a cobwebbed
attic.
Box filled with pages,
lighthearted,
traumatic.
Words written
long years
ago.
Forgotten notebooks.
-A poet's
portfolio.
Yellowed paper
sits there-
.
.
.
-unread.
Constructed thoughts
of an ancestor-
.
.
.
-dead.
Wasted ink
from
wayward dreams.
Never bound in books,
chapters
or themes.
It was her hope
someday,
to see them in print.
Now they sit there,
unseen,
in dust and lint.
A talent wasted.
Gone by
the wayside.
Packed away there,
soon after
she died.
Maybe fame.
would have come
her way.
But it never
happened,
to her dismay.
She never finished
the dream,
that she started.
Too many obstacles
sprung up.
Then she, departed.
Now it just
lies there,
cold and enigmatic.
What remains
of her life...
Poetry in the attic.
profound piece and we all hope as writers this does not happen to us. Not that we want to be famous but that we hope our works touches another before life calls us to leave..