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.

#fiction