Ideas

A tick here, a tick there,
A miracle here, a miracle there,
As a minute passes by,
I seem to drift of into another wave of ideas,
Future cannot be told,
Past cannot be corrected,
With each tick, the future becomes past,
With each thought, a new idea is invented,
My ideas are only alive in the present,
Unsettling it reveals the flaws thus making them history,
By the time, I realize what I have thought up the mystery is solved,
Ideas are a stepladder to changes,
Bad or good changes,
Changes that will affect everyone.

I seem to drift of once more,
Surrounded by mystery, I curiously await my time,
The time when once again an idea comes to me,
Only to disappear by the next tick of the clock.

(10300002)   Copyright © 08/01/05 Ronil Tataria