Believe me when I say, some of the greatest poetry remain hidden in unopened journals, of unknown poets from sweatshops and strawberry fields. Those poems exist as reminders of the unknown Words of those wiser than Shakespeare and Einstein combined. Mind you when I say, Some of the best poems remain unpublished, Unread, Dedicated only to a muse. The poets are still alive, in a mystery, Unsolved and nameless like those who lived in Atlantis, And the families turned to stone in Pompeii. Nevertheless, they live, In their yellowed papyrus, In their ink, Through every single poem they’ve birthed, They live.