Poems never written,
Pain, never placed in aesthetic positions,
for other's enjoyment, or my own ego,
but left to float away
like butterflies in the ether
of nothingness that is forgotten.
Yes, rest in peace,
and no we don't bury you with gold,
we don't wish you a thousand slaves,
we don't even have flowers.
But these are my gifts,
my art, gone unwritten,
they go out to you, dear.
Out, and on to you.