Wild Ones

I want to suck in my ideas like a greedy, turbulant vortex so there will be no escape.

To instantaneously grasp them, implant them, tatoo them, cage them.

Package them up like a gift.

Retrieve them, on a whim, like a book from a shelf.

Pluck them into a flower bouquet.

Yet they run.

Messy, haphazardly flung, and cluttering everthing in sight.

They run.

Hither and yon, willy-nilly ahead of me, over me, under me.

They run.

Mocking me, taunting me to gather them up neatly.

But they fly, like pages caught in a sudden gust that scatters and

Spins them high into the clouds, or skips them down the path

Just out of reach.