The defective poet

Confessed guilty of injustice to poetry,
I sit ruminating the pristine poems squandered away.
Honored that they chose me,
But still could not resist,
Painting their dreams in cheap colors,
And embarrassing them with a trumpet of hollow words.

Somewhere in the eagerness to impress,
And make a name,
I forgot to listen to their silent whisperings
And read their secret signs.

In a heavenly generosity they indulged my conceit,
But privately grieved probably,
Of someone who sat on the treasure chest,
And squabbled over nickels.