Crumpled Paper

In a dark corner lies a messy crumpled paper.

A wind can blow it away without listening.
A fire can reduce it to ash before it can talk.
Ruthless stomping shoes can crush it.
Proud ignoring eyes, its worthlessness, can mock.

But a light of a poem is more than a reward,
That only the eyes of that spirit can applaud,
Whose fingers cared to uncrumple it to life.