I am a lost poem,
The kind which never got the fame.
I am sitting in the drawer,
And sometimes she comes,
Lifting up my letters to her heart.
Those running tears, shaking hand
Understand my feelings.
But that sudden overwhelm of Hers,
Sends me back
To that small corner of life.

My words are birds
beautiful delicate feathered things
on graceful multicoloured wings
set free to range the mental sky
they take me where
I dare not fly