The Lost Idea
So inconsistent in its mood
Its natural state is to elude
It slips away like hoary mist
Evading eager, grasping fists
And only shines when glanced upon
A second look and it is gone
Amused by our frustration it
Across our brains will often flit
Dancing
on the edge of
sound and sight
To hover by our left ear
. . . or our right.
This poem is about:
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: