This is the poem that would be.
These are the words meant to say.
This is the me only I see.
These are thoughts at the end of day.
This is a song of silent chords.
These are drums of beating hearts.
This is a tango of flaming swords.
These are steps becoming shards.
This is now, then and never.
These are times of endless want.
This is becoming, eternal, forever.
These are all those “I can’t”.
This is what my pen does.
These are pauses in thought.
This is the poem that never was.