The poem
Which was not read
Its very soul
In words that bled
Locked in time
A distant place
Its sorrow
Surrounds its face.
A certain dignity
Which clothes its frame
Its burning ink
Its tears taste
The sadness
Overwhelming still
Its yellowed page
That lost its will.
Words that clung
To dying hope
An inability
Again to cope
The angels left
Upon the wing
The unread poem
A forgotten thing.