filaments of my soul
like an etch-a-sketch
in the hands of a child.
knobs turn in earnest
thoughts cross into
patterns, coalescing,
faster turning and turning and
almost
there almost
glimpsed!
as if I could just
step back
unfocus
and they would crystallize.
form
something.
tell me
something.
they don't.
a shake, two, and all is gone
but a faint gray web
to mar the surface.
over time that, too, is
subsumed.
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