Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

What might have been
We'll never know
The secret kept
In the letting go
If we'd held on
To way back when
Then perhaps we'd know
What might have been

What might have been
Has earned its keep
In the who knows when
Of history
With vision blurred
Through sifting sands
Not knowing where or when
What Might have been

glimpses in corners of eyes
a flip jump,
we all meet there,
where insects be
a flash, dash, swatted away.