Am I writing a poem?
Or is it writing me?
I can’t be sure.

When each and every word comes fast,
its flame so bright but never lasts.
It is consumed,
leaving only ash behind.
Wonders of inspired mind
turned echoes of a broken thought.

Experience of this has taught
that words be captured now in haste
lest they unwind and go to waste
and leave me bereft.
Desert itself is more fruitful
than words which fall from vivid mind,
out of memory, out of time,
into the abyss.

What have I missed?
Too late to know,
too late to find,
the words have burned.
No matter how I yearn,
they’ll not return.