Driving through my texts,
I noticed some forgotten thoughts.
Rotting in pages.
Probably left alone in conscience.
Letters melting before,
crumbling
like a gigantic mountain
that had seen zenith
but couldn’t resist it’s urge for more.
The ideas,
the creativity,
and vision,
seemingly trapped within
a clobberstone.
Waiting to be grated,
to fret upon.
But this lazy author,
cramped with time and responsibilities,
still soaring
on the wings of hope.

©boringbug