My Verses

A poem.

For thirty years, I wrote these verses,
Nurtured them, and made them grow,
Fed them knowledge, gave attention,
Rested them, and loved them so.

All so one day, I could give them
To a worthy, open soul
Who'd love and nurture them as I had,
Understand them, feel their goal.

It wasn't long before I learned
That no one loved them as I did.
No matter what they said or showed,
The mask invariably slid.

I looked for years, though, on and off,
As doubt suffused my turning mind,
And started hoping less and less
Until at last, I was resigned.

I'd keep the verses, locked away
In glass so they could still be seen,
But nobody would ever hold them;
Only I'd know what they mean.

But every now and then I steal
Into the room where they are kept
And lift the cover, pen in hand,
To write a few more tears unwept.


And so they grow, my lovely verses,

Blooming for a crowd of one.

And every time I add a line,

It seems a little bit less fun.

Photo by National Gallery of Art on Unsplash