The conception of this idea came, Not as easily as I might have hoped. With a pause and a wistful sigh, There are thousands of conclusions. Startlingly similar are the plains From one coast to the other. Like film projected to the walls, They stay the same until the next frame comes. To quiet these thoughts Is the goal of the wasted and youthful; And to keep them in the forefront Is the curse of the aged and foolish. There are no planned actions And no meetings for formulation. For second glances and lost ideas Are at best, the seeds of creation.