Where do I go when I’m lost?
To poems, they’ve told me.
But, where do all the unwritten poems go?
Do they run in the mountains,
breaking free from the chains I’ve put them?
Do they swim in the sky,
and fly with the fishes?
Do they get along with the unmade pictures
and paintings, unrecorded songs, forgotten strings
and pieces of the lost humans?
Do they hide beneath the heavy burden
of being alive?
Or do they just go,
as everything once in a while…