I had it then lost it;
the words slipped away,
silent and sulking.
Inspiration shouldn’t be so fickle.
As soon as I allow my gaze to wander
no longer captured within the orb.
Words are slippery,
newly formed, newly born.
Once set upon the page or
given utterance, they solidify,
I did not abandon them –
only sought to delay their inking.
Their song I had not a voice to raise.
But time is of the essence, and we lose
the words we cannot sing.