The Poet Asks Forgiveness

Dead to the world I have failed you Forgive me, traveller. Thirsty, I was no fountain Hungry, I was not bread Tired, I was no pillow Forgive my unwritten poems: the many I have frozen with irony the many I have trampled with anger the many I have rejected in self-defence the many I have ignored in fear unaware, blind or fearful I ignored them. They clamoured everywhere those unwritten poems. They sought me out day and night and I turned them away. Forgive me the colours they might have worn Forgive me their eclipsed faces They dared not venture from the unwritten lines. Under each inert hour of my silence died a poem, unheeded