A poetic lament

You sit alone, contemplating,
your mind pinched Gyrus and Sulcus,
images, words, clouded consciousness,
there it is, that sparkling diamond,
that treasure of thought you sought,
a brief moment of clarity, euphoria,
then a dung ball of interruption arrives,
a question or inconsequential comment,
the pointed needle of deflating conceit,
it is fleeting, this fragile inspiration,
a gossamer thread drifting, swiftly flown,
journeying on winds of distraction,
context lost to bitter miss direction,
the mind adjusts seeking a redemption,
but, the moment is gone, a lost corpse,
and you drift into tomorrow’s challenge.

2015, Donald Harbour

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