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.