He writes in seclusion
Despondent and morose,
Beckoning to your
Hearts and minds.
For hours at a time
He sits inside,
Having drawn his mental blinds.
No voice can reach him
But the one inside
His head,
So what a surprise
For all to find
His work was never read.
All the craft and all his labor
Lay wasting in his bin.
If someone had seen
The soul of this poet,
Perhaps lonely
He may not have been.