Wasted Works

For years I sat at my desk,
writing words no one wanted to hear.
Wasted works of love,
with each page overflowing
with sunshine and pain.
They made a lovely bonfire,
to keep me warm when winter came.
The flames licked at every word,
that my pen had written.
When fire was finished
I dug a hole, and put the ashes in.
Finally covering them with earth,
buried those wasted works within.

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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