What began as something quite unfamiliar Has now evolved into one quite peculiar A collection of orphans, born into existence And not all are resembling real substance With the unique perspective of creator I feel with each piece that I am a traitor Somehow I never wrote something that I’ve intended to go back to; and that’s a fact Each one an entry from some long lost past Never read twice, they are designed to last Beyond my feeble years to hide and collect dust So I’ll take the rare chance to show that I must Return to my work, my children, my thoughts Let them resonate and appreciate their plots And since it’s my poetic resumé I’ve described I’ll always make it new, as Pound prescribed