The inept bard

I fail to see the nexus between conversations
But the nocturnal words come to raid me
I lounge about in the veranda at two
And get bloated with coherent letters
They say nothing
But chase for a fountain-pen
And create a dappled effect on my heart
I paint the calligraphic picture
In such a way that they have some cryptic codes
Only few can decipher the poetic poser
And only I know of the inverted answers
I courier my puzzles through a maze
And perhaps all succeed in building the culvert
But no one reads beneath the crevice
And no one sees the wet paper
Sometimes a poet dies of suffocated secrets
And he becomes nothing but a misnomer