It drives me crazy when I have the beginning of a creative piece of work in my brain, but before I can fully grasp it and develop it into something amazing, it slips back into nothing….

          Stifled

Will it be flowers or feathers or faries
That take me to my imagination?
Maybe all three will meet there in
The light of an idea.
And maybe the flowers will grow
And the feathers will fall
And the fairies will fly.
Or perhaps the exuberance
Will falter with the death of the thought.
Opened but unused the almost creation
Is left in pieces floating amongst
The feathers and fairies.
Lights go out one by one
Like blown out candles
Until it’s too dark to see the shadows.
Imagination has Given way to reason and logic
No time for play.
Flowers and feathers and fairies have
Dried and crumbled away.

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