Lying there naked in a puddle of blood, Covered from head to toe, Hidden from sight for the whole world to see, Blow on me cold winds...... blow. The poet’s plight is nothing to behold, Trapped in a cell all alone, Waiting for thoughts to turn into words, His work will remain unknown. Driven from within by a voice of discontent, Harbinger of things that might have been, Poems that pierced the heart of every soul, Lying at the bottom of an old trash bin.