to run around the plains
with a butterfly net
following the flighted beauty
whose elusive wings
you cannot catch

is like trying to hunt a poem
and pull it from thin air
wisps of wisdom
in rare rhymes
flitting away

you chase after it, hoping to hold onto
at least a glimmer of inspiration
a passing glance
and you lunge at it with all your heart

but all you bring home
is an empty jar of want,
broken promises,
and misted tears.