With my pen poised to write
I stumble on a thought
Stagger to grasp its significance
And falter in my own reality
If I try too hard to hold on
It merely slips away
Leaving me desolate
So I hold it gently
And I listen to it whisper
A faint sound of something
I cannot make it out
I feel it flutter like a wounded bird
Slowly dying as I try to hear
Then it is gone
I am sitting here
Pen in hand
Staring at the page
Where a thought has just died
Attempting to convey
Its last breath to the world
It was a senseless death
Unrealized in its moment
I could never have captured it
Because I am not a poet.