Ideas (half-baked) which used to glow
With an inner promise of beauty
When turned around and placed
With their feet on the ground
Dissolved into the dust of the brain
Tossed into the gutter, with rain pattering
against their feeble souls, their ink washed away
And running down the drain
Scrapped and thrown to the side like wrapping paper
on Christmas Afternoon
Undercooked thoughts
Have a dreadful fate.
littlewordworm 