A Progression
I hold multitudes of ideas
with paper hands,
each a spectral amalgam dyed in
the fleeting, busy shades of life:
innocence, experience,
my weary-youthful brand an
artisanally awkward blend of both...
Ideas,
waiting for pendulum pens to realize,
and gift relative permanence to their
scattered echoes.
Ideas,
like an evanescent sand,
searching to find the small of
the hourglass and
make a grand(ly clumsy) escape.
To soar away with the color of
ideas; to taste the night beyond
self-wrought bars of radio silence,
white-noise-dipped thought.
For now...
Ideas rest dormant in the depths of
smooth hands.
And I’m here...
Waiting with
trapped breath, for age to
perch at trembling fingertips
and vein its way through my
gasping system.
I wasn’t re—
And then...
Waiting for neglected ideas
to be tapped;
and to spill carelessly-awry from
the fissures of my core.
Years softly evaporate.
Ideas rest restlessly,
electrically shiftless,
erratically dead.
The neglect decays all it touches,
and what once danced on
an irregular smile and painted a child’s
powdery laughter collapses on itself
and tumbles, resigned, into a black hole.
Ideas rest dormant in the depths of
cold hands.
Now unable to be realized.