There are so many poems that I don't write. They just sit and hum the hymn of the ignored in my broad heart. I pet them like a cat. I whisper them down to sleep. Someday they will be yours.
And somewhere inside of my mind is a map. A cartographer's pretty daydream. You would grow dizzy if you tried to follow your finger across the zig zag witchcraft of the haphazard travels of my heart.