I miss the thrill of reading to a crowd,
that uplift to the ego when, aloud,
my verses soar, dip, take flight again –
no longer trapped on paper, and it’s then
my poem may live or maybe die,
crash to the ground or sometimes fly
on wings of lyric grace. But nothings sure,
my poetry may sink, may lack allure.
Yet, I miss that element of chance,
the uncertainty of reception, that dance
of emotional turmoil when I dare
to let my poems fly loose into the air.