My street has no name, but cobblestones of fame: A poem 

I have kept my talents in the attic of existence 

would their revival now, take them out of obscurity 

I can see a little of them stranded on the window seat of a blogsite 

Sometimes, a little wistful smile from seeing them in black and white 

I know I can say I am a street with no name 

Does the knowledge of its cobblestones give it its own fame? 

I can feel a quiet decorum in whitewashing aspiration 

It permits me to rephrase and evaluate my humble demotion 

Even the most sacred art (to me) is impressive when no eyeballs befall 

Can one doubt the precious pricelessness of childhood dolls 

Who crafted creation, but seldom on our knowledge calls? 

All our proud inventions were long past pictures on His walls 

I am happy to say His first created, most pristine star 

has fallen down from the skies into my heart 

And if He asks me why I kept my talents hidden 

I’ll tell Him, truthfully, I did as I was bidden