A poem unnoticed
is as a colored child
sleeping in the dead of night,
awakened by polished dreams of terror
and shadow’s light,
a dim despair
discarded to the emptiness of time.
There, it isn’t provocative,
weighed down and drowned in a river of thoughts,
made murky by one’s novel ink
so pressed to cotton
you can’t see the bottom.
A poem unnoticed
is as a colored child
lost without attention
… quiet from neglect.
Only paper shows its kindness,
a weary blue shade of simple language
trapped in solitude,
never to be disturbed,
a lazy play of sound
like Monday’s muse in B flat,
an oven non-the-less.
It must sequester every margin of respect.
A poem unnoticed is as a colored child
sleeping in the dead of night