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