Something at the back of my mind,
An aching, a revelation unfound;
An uninvited guest, must be wined and dined
To coax out its secret, mustn't hound.
The inconceivable is vying for attention,
Like an escape pod, ready to eject,
Mission to leave base with contention,
Holding the position of a heavenly sect.
The compulsion flares, a promising sign,
Hoping to be located, nutured and fed,
Sustenance necessary to stop decline,
Before returning forever to homestead.
Now it’s lost, filed deep within mind's recesses,
To be overcome by time's sapping abscesses.
© menshallknownothingofthis.co.uk 18.05.2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.