The Lost Poem

Hungry words soldiering by.
Tired and weary, slipping on through.
One by one they March.
Out from the darkness and then back into.

Neither kindness nor dignity renders them pause.
For theirs' is a mission for some lucky few.

Ever so deeply I yearn just for a glance.
But onward they move for some other hue.

As they are the petals I am the stem.
As they are the atoms I am the glue.

But tonight is not my night.
So this poem must belong to you.