Mysterious figures of motionless ink,
This form that takes me to sanity's brink.
Fragile thoughts made of gossamer filigree,
Broken, shredded so that they don't inspire me.
Dense clouds of intangible thought,
Dancing and laughing, but never caught.
Whirling and whispering and taunting me,
Dragging a word in to let me finish this poetry.
