Where Were The Poems That I, Once, Wrote—
Triolets, Haikus, Tankas And Vinalelles?
Did They Fly Away, To Where The Lilies Bloomed,
Or To The Seas Where Indigo Water Glistens?

My Wings, Now, Tattered,
I Could Not Glide On Skies;
Feathers, Tarnished By Time,
Orange And Blue Colors Fading,
My Aging Wings,
Now, Like Roses’ Petals Of Winter Gloom.
I Longed To Fly With My Poems—
Instead, On The Rosary Of The Reds And Pinks,
A Fetus, I Curled Up,
Regurgitated Words Upon The Scarlet Soil…
O, Where Are The Poems, Once, Hidden In My Soul?