Ideas float, they soar, they sail
Some within reach, some with a veil.
The moment was too good to pass
Idea unhinged from the mast.
It sticks to the ceiling, ever so high
Out of reach, out of sight.
Try as I may to beg its return
New ideas begin to churn.
Inflating their shiny skins about
Daring to leave when they get stout.
I hear them call and call my name
And still they haunt me just the same.
How to flee this massive mill
Stricken am I, standing still.
Begin a task I must at once
Free myself from the corner dunce.
Completion is a funny thing
Freeing me from the idea king.