In due time

To my early-written poetry,
That I was a poet and didn't even know it,
To explode like a fountain's spray,
Similar to rocket sparkles.

Like little devils, they burst.
Into the temple, where there is incense and sleep,
My poetry on aging and dying,
My Unread verses.

Dusty and dispersed throughout stores,
Where nobody has taken them and no one is interested.
My poems are like fine wines;
They'll get their chance in due course.

Image credit to pixabay