The words swim through my mind.
They flutter like butteflies in the wind
Then crumble like the ashes of a fire.
A beautifully worded line
Falls apart, rewritten and thinned
Destroyed in an inky funeral pyre.
The rhytmical tide of inspiration
Pulled back by a change of the moon
Lost among the shifting currents
Is pulled apart like a job application
Or maybe it was the pixels of a cartoon
Or yet again the petals of a child's floret.
Struggling to assemble the puzzle
Unable to find the right fit.
The words crumble before they are written.
My voice lost to a muzzle
Of anger, fire, and spit
My ideas fuzzy like a newborn kitten
But when the letters flow smoothly together,
And the words paint a picture of grace,
With a story nothing can weather,
And a sentence as delicate as lace
Like insects hiding among the heather
Every thought has its perfect place.