Sometimes my thoughts get lost.
They start young, but then get tossed
aside, dying along my way.
I hope I'll find them soon because
I don't know what to say.

I wrote no poems yesterday;
my mind was somewhere else.
It mostly minded you, Ms. Mystic,
and thought of little else.

My pen and paper hesitation
came from your superb self.
Words scratched out -- Nouns and Verbs --
because none of them quite work.

Imagination -- the one true author --
speaks no lies to me.
She describes you in elegant tongues
telling no one what I see.

you will be twice Eurydice,
the first was in my mind

the thoughts of doubt, a
snake in the grass of the
fantasies of love

the second, of course, in
the land of Death, where
my mistake was yours

-

my fears are mine and
mine alone. the Snake -
my Doubt, was made by
me to save me from
myself