The Lost Idea

So inconsistent in its mood

Its natural state is to elude

It slips away like hoary mist

Evading eager, grasping fists

And only shines when glanced upon

A second look and it is gone

Amused by our frustration it

Across our brains will often flit



on the edge of

sound and sight


To hover by our left ear

. . . or our right.


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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