Frustration settles on me like a dusting of snow
as I try to visualise the words I require,
that are a vital necessity, to wax lyrical
upon a feeling that fleetingly
pricks upon my head as a song cuffs
my ears, or my eyes watch a motion of
folks.

I shall not give myself unto exulansis,
for I strive to communicate, even
amongst the flailing dialect that
bursts from my mouth in splatters
and mush, thoughts colliding
like trains, and the mess left behind
a soggy biscuit of confusion.

How can I pin that fleeting tickle
to digital page and in satisfactory
prose, when these internal cogs
refuse to revolve in the same manner?
Maybe my quest for clarity
drives such pometry
and success fulfills the pact?