My Lost Poems
Where, I wonder, at this late hour,
are the poems that long I've lost?
There must be hundreds. I think of those
I once wrote then put aside that
I might preserve them for a while
then find again to gauge their worth --
change a word, rethink a line --
or, satisfied, simply let them be.
They all reflected "me" as I must have been,
way back then, when I wrote them.
A partial fragment -- a line or two --
pops up in memory to recall to me
who I was -- along with special "friends"
(and more than "friends") -- a time of troubles --
damages I inflicted on myself (and them) --
my moodiness, the walls I built around
me so very long ago. Yet still in my memory
are those "friends". They were all led on and
were all fled from, but are all remembered.
Those lost "verses", now, could occupy, comfort,
and perhaps distract me when innate despair
pervades my all-too-frequent solitary nights.
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