I never counted my chicken. My poems
go unpublished, and I’m sixty! They are no shining gems
But, undiscovered, they lie on my blogsite, unread
like deep-earth stone structures stranded in beds
that even the most sharp-eyed satellites fail to uncover
I have had no birth, no death, but deathly still moments
These words, these worlds, are ignored, sunken rivers
I am like a worthless recipe, a forgotten inlet
May be, I’ll just have to take this to my death
Yet, I can be a scentless flower on the periphery
that no one ever graced my tea
discarded by even the edges of destiny’s symphony.
But grace is an imagination of humility
So, I am not going to rue that no one ever read my poetry.
And just when I thought I should improve my lot,
they are saying AI beats human creations by a long shot
Monte – you are heard, read , understood and scented. never a word falls on deaf ears or goes noticed . In ways unknown it reaches those souls that need it most .keep writing and let the rewards unfold when they have to
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