Mesmerized by the thoughts

That comb my ancient mind.

They linger long enough

For me when shopping find.

I place the bits and pieces

That my comb has brushed out.

There they lay on paper blank,

Hoping I'll give them some clout.

A thought has many aspects

For a poet to assemble.

Though the words are very noble,

When coherent they resemble.

The words of a poet long dead,

But not the poetry he left behind.

Would that I could hone them so,

That others in years ahead would find.