Idle Thoughts

I scramble for a pen, before the thought drifts away

-yielding to an inflow of more.

Ink, its only answer to staying awake.

As if by the last letter, it holds to the blank page.

I faint, but only to wake to the sound of scattered plots;

to tread on rainbows of tears

and idle thoughts.

That bring me back, to the foundations

Of flawed illusions:

That which romantic outlooks shackle; beneath fear and conclusions.

Bringing me ever more deeply

To an unsettling truth;

That which we may never conquer,

Yet holds us

Barren and cold,

Its hostage.

Forever questioning-

The undoubtful doubtfulness of our existence.