I read great poets, great beacons,
Their eyes so keen,
Their voices clear as sunlight
With a winter slant, harsh,
But welcome all the same.
Personally,
I’ve grown used to irrelevance,
Come to prefer it.
My history of judgment
Is spotty, at best
My place in the grand confusion
Of existence
Is in the chorus,
Oblivious,
One small voice
Bleating among many,
One fading light
In the great kaleidoscope,
Whispering, more than declaiming,
Twinkling, more than illuminating.
But it’s me, inaudible at times,
Barely discernable,
Me
exiles child 
Twinkling is a rare and highly underrated gift, and this poem beams.
Why thank you.
“Whispering, more than declaiming,
Twinkling, more than illuminating.
But it’s me, inaudible at times,
Barely discernable,”
It sometimes surprises me how your poetry possesses a style that parallels your prose. Inaudible? Hardly. Barely discernible? Not really. Your writings, most often, show clarity of message – which I’d much prefer than other poets’ stuff that makes my head spin. 🙂