A poem is a living thing,
Born of love or hate, joy, or despair.
When it is received, and loved by a reader,
It reaches it's full potential,
Matures, becomes layered and complex, almost sentient.
Has relationships, prompts reactions, stirs emotions,
And such a poem, being lost, must be mourned, will be grieved.
Indulge me in my sadness, for these treasured words
Conceived and birthed with such joy that they overflowed the page
and ecstatically overwhelmed me.
I know, they were just words, I know...
But this grief is familiar. It reminds. It rewinds.
And I am back in a place I do not care to revisit,
Waiting to be haunted, by "it wasn't meant to be".