So many poems
in this world remain
unwritten,
unsaid,
undone.
So many poets cry out,
each one longing
for a masterpiece -
words strung
emotive,
expressive,
true.
Poems, poets
Linger they must
in the colonnades of time
under trees in the sky
waiting, straining
for birth.
Unfortunately
they at sunrise seek
A bosom mother -
from whom they must spring
eternal at first light;
sorry for now
but unwritten she is,
unsaid too,
unborn.
Wait.
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