The things I have created
alive, glowing, new
seem to vanish slowly
into the past, collected
but not seen, known
to their design, their intent.
Hoped for big places, resided
in small
or in a book, under papers,
in corners, broken frames.
They helped me in a time of need,
catharsis, longing,
a desire to make sense of…
Who will see these?
Where will they go?
Will they see the light I hope
they deserve?
I have no choice but to be content
with where they’ve brought me,
a belief in the power of creating;
a hope of things not yet seen
and a desperate,
silent cry,
for help.