There was a thought,
but it is lost.
It had been pure in the
impurest of ways.
It sought to defile the innocence,
prolong the sin that is writing.
It is too late.
The thought that wants,
that needs,
but will not.
It will vanish and leave nothing
but
pure
thought.
It is there
without words to describe it;
without the moment it lives in;
without a slivering snakes sssslush
sac full of venom.
Venom, that it is.
Injecting itself
without the mind knowing.
Killing, callous,
couth - as one might imagine.
It exists
but not in context,
separately from its source.
Detached,
despondent,
erratic despite it's sharpness,
it's potency.
A thought that if thought about
you cannot elaborate enough.
It is sophisticated,
in the ways that writing is.
It will come and it will go
but it will always fester.
Decaying the process of thought.
© Shane Leigh
A proper BLAH that it is lol Working on my NOT Poetry series lol
Enjoy!