By the time you think of it, cognitive and sighing,
It seems as though the thought I think, has already started dying.
But is seems, to many folks, simply if you muster,
without a sound, or single hitch, you can catch it without fluster.
But for me, a card or sorts, it doesn't work this way.
No matter what I dream about, it loses luster in the day.
When the burning sunset's glow, descends behind the hill
My minds, it reels, for another, thought to un-fulfill.
The lists I make, the doodles drawn, the visions on my board
all end up tossed aside, artifacts to my obsessive hoard.
Fickle be the mind that's lost. And simple may be it so.
But hell, Wouldn't it be wonderful to unquestionably know.