The Ghost Of An Idea (Poetry)

The idea’s lost its balance —
fallen off the metal cliff.
It started frail, unlikely
and it’s really not as if
it had a clear ambition
or aimed to live for long
more of a whim — vague fancy doomed
to somehow get it wrong.

Another’s sure to pop up soon
and take its narrow place
creep in uninvited
just to fill the vacant space.
I wish that I could stop them
block each unsure stumbling thought
plunging into nothing
jumping wild — unsaved — uncaught ...

Those suicidal poems
that leap into the blue
unfinished — trailing threads of words
fading ... gone from view.
Yet always there’s one lasting line
given strength to burn
deep in the brain’s dim-haunted halls
determined to return.