I am the poet without readers,
my eyes catch snowflakes in the clouds,
my fingers ramble through the cinders
of a late season closing doors.
Staying awake, gazing at stars
my rebel dreams vanish away
old songs are smothered in my years
where rhymes can’t find their proper pairs.
Now my embroidered lace is yellow
like pages that were never turned
the print that shaped the verse is old,
in a blind desert a blind train.