Passing Thoughts

It's hardly eureka, bordering ironic,
embryonic cells, effectually chronic.
No inkling of hope, just psychosomatic,
a passing phase, no need for dramatics.
Real or fake, these visions opaque,
no guarantees, make no mistake.
Perishable goods, without denial,
consequently, here on trial.
Paper thin, the evidence stacks,
as hungry mouths, refuse to quack.
Whimsical fancies, nothing concrete,
missing chances, for lullabies sweet.
These thoughts pass, page remains blank,
Refused withdrawal, from the muse's bank.