The Internet deleted my first poem
And it has died, never to rise again.
I kept the seeds in mind, still to resow 'em,
But even so, the first one perished then
Never to be reborn, though I rewrote
A poem from the same idea, indeed
Much the same words. Whatever was the mote
Made that one a unique plant of the seed
Has passed away, and never will recur.
I mourn its passing, and I wish it well
Though it has passed forever, I am sure
And poems once discarded have no hell
Or heaven. It is passed into the spaces
Whereby our data ever interlaces.
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