These words,
these fragments,
like treasures of minds,
like streams that once flowed,
like stolen aspirations.

Buried deep beneath a pile of ideas,
and half thoughts,
and partial lines,
semi-sketched lives,
the un-cast characters of would-be stories,
or could be novels,
the stationary stanza.

Unheard,
Not unloved or un-cherished,
but waiting for their instant of recognition,
their chance to speak
quietly with lone reader
or shout aloud from the mouths of thespians
or in adaptation
for radio or the big screen
or even appearing on TV.
These words,
the unheard words of new writers.