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Almost Never

                           Once in a rare while I step outside,
my bones are tired, my eyes dim with the scrolling years.
I sit in the somnolence of my small room,
where silence is louder than applause.

                        Yet somewhere — in the endless feed,
              in the bright screens of young poets —
       my lines are borrowed, reshaped,
their tongues tasting the syllables I once carved.

They carry my visions in their fresh bodies,
their taut voices, their restless minds.
And I, though bent and hidden, almost never
claim a share of their youth —
but my words still breathe in their mouths,
                     still rise in their rhythms,
                     still pulse in the veins of tomorrow.

My silence sleeps, but my lines still roam;
           their voices make my exile home.