I was never a poet
Cowered from frost touched air
Confined to bed
Afraid to think, to dare
Camouflaged by night
The stalks of thought
Scaled forbidden walls
Till sickle of morning light
Swept cruelly across
And scattered them
In their flight
I was never a poet
Waited for love or death
with placidity, hidden tears
When love came, my barren heath
Bloomed wild flowers, new fears
I was never a poet.