It is a struggle
To find the right words,
Yet when they emerge
I am seldom prepared.

With nowhere to store them,
My mind lets each one slip through the net.
Its weave seems to wear,
and is getting larger
As I get older,
And more and more thoughts
And ideas,
Swim off,
And care not for being caught.

One time, when again,
I was not ready to receive them,
They arrived late at night.
Not with a whisper,
But with a great thunderous cry,

“Here am I!” they said,
“Let us go on together. What wonders could we accomplish!”
But I had no oil in my lamp.
So, I held my head in shame,
As those wonderful words walked by,
And I was but a sorry stranger,
Standing in the dark alone and cold,
Breathing deep despondent sighs.

The door of destiny then locked and bolted tight,
And I only had heavy blame and regret
to bid me goodnight.