My poem found me yesterday.

It chased me down a hill, and rolled past me like a tumbleweed in an old western ghost town.

It clothed me in words and betrothed me to my own metaphorical aspirations.

It ran me down a path to a dead end but then showed me a way out, the way into my thoughts.

It painted a dozen pictures and sculpted a million lies that would soon account for all my forgotten memories.

In the end the poem held up a white flag and told me it had surrendered, yet it wasn’t until this moment I realized I had been the one chasing the poem all along.

I found my poem yesterday.