The hidden posts that slink away in draft,
What do they think of me, when, half-composed,
I let them waste while I prefer to craft
Their part-companions? When metamorphosed
Into their adult form, as posts themselves,
Do they forget the agony they felt?
I know that having been forgotten delves
Into the heart, and leaves a lasting welt.
Yet all these poems should be relics of
The better part of me, the part that hopes,
That knows the ways of mercy, and of love,
And, when in desperate straights, the part that copes.
So they may better me, and let it go
But there's no way for me to really know.
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