My Perfect...

.....poem.

Is buried inside a pile of books in Canada or somewhere...

Is desperate for me to find him under an old leaf of other ones that never made it in my book.

Never made it in my heart.

You have to have more than my head within you.

Sometimes you need to add a catalyst to make it work.

Somewhere under a bed of rocks lies my poem.

Somewhere still in someone's minds is hidden in.

And it refuses to come out tonight, my poem.

It's still somewhere out there.

Buried.

Under a pile of books.

And the poet

Is lost,

But I'm here, to cherish your work of art.