GONE

When poetic ideas form, on the pledge of slumber,
The glittering prizes lie
With promise as they speak.
They prevent you from dropping off,
To endlessly seek and wander
Through stanzas along the way.

They’re fuzzy round the edges, and you have to be quick
To get a grip on the prose,
And capture verse
Desperately near to sleep;
A fleeting life observation
So concise, yet deep.

But while reaching for a pen,
The words can dissolve.
And before you get the gist,
The forgotten phrases of hazy print
Camouflage in cloud
And spiral out of bounds.

No paper record,
No notion of what was found.
Pen poised to write lines
That now don’t make a sound.
It starts to dawn,
There’s no wisdom to share,

The thought’s gone
As if it was never really there.
No lyrical survivor
Saved by forty winks,
Only bare empty head space
And a sleepless blink.

by KizWiz
©March 2012