As days sneak away
Like small thieves
Taking pieces of my soul
I wonder…
Where poems
The guardians of time?
Defenders of hopes?
Or…
Were they disordered seams
Holding together a life
Of secret sorrow
Disintegrating
Where they artistic lies
Shallow
Hollow
Perfected to taste mellow
To hide the bitterness
The missing shadow
Of my shrinking soul?
What where they?
Impostor dreams?
Why do we really write poetry? To feel better, or to not feel worse? To run away, or to achieve something?