Old poems
not lost but alone,
pressed between pages
dark and cold.

Should I write something new, or
Perhaps revive one of these
lonesome works of old?

Is the old not new
if it's never been told?

Oh so many pieces
Only known by me,

From dusky corners of my mind
to yellowing pages unseen.

Unfinished bits of sentiment,
lovelorn lyrics and rhyme.

Lost and lonely lines,
too good to have never been set down.

How long gathering dust and
locked away.

Before final words
Are found.