How many ways can poets speak
of capturing ideas like hummingbirds,
trapping them within pages of journals
or the confines of keyboards?
How many times must they illustrate
that thoughts drift like feathers
on a north wind? That they require
swift plucking from the ether,
before they land in the mighty river
of thought and float forever away?
Will they ever cease
to compare ideas to butterflies,
pencils to nets?
Will it ever be enough,
or is it imperative to remind us again
of the muse, of her essence as transient
as dusk shadows, employing terms like
ephemeral and dancing, to impress upon us
that these sparks of inspiration
aren’t birthed from the mind,
but rather ensnared from the void?
That they simply appear on burning pages,
penned in quickly disappearing ink,
as we rush to snap a desperate,
grainy photograph before they dissolve
form our messy realm
and set off in search
of another more prepared,
more deserving customer?
Written for the Ragtag Daily Writing Prompt. The word for the day is Ink.
The Truth About Tigers 
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