How do I put into words, the scattered images flashing through my mind?
Where do I start, when do I stop?
I’m chasing shadows, revisiting a past committed to memory, and yet my hand passes through like a ghosts.
Something tangible is all I ask.
I grasp at straws, always finding the shortest one a midst a sea of wondrous creativity.
There is so much potential that I am astounded, dumbfounded, and then confounded by my inability.
How do I mold this hardened clay?
Where do I go from here, trapped inside the hunter’s snare?