Waiting To Be Made Known
I have a quiet space
in the centre of myself
behind a high wall
where I go to listen.
I keep all my unwritten
poems there, some sleep
in a wordless dream
waiting to be awoken,
others are cloaked
in a vague notion
or an unshaped need
looking for way
to find form, a prayer
yet to be spoken
and be given a name.
Mostly though I hear
only the sound of myself,
my own machinery,
the taken breath,
my heartbeat, masking
what waits
to be made known.
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