Bookish dreams

Many a book has come and gone,
in the hopes of a better story
A better beginning, a better ending
The words run ahead of themselves
refusing to beaten into shape.

At times they give up, and don't come back
At times, they are gone forever,
lost in the attic of memories,
with mothballs and old cobwebs
And things that go bump in the night.

Many a book has come and gone,
with people, places, names and colors
All etched in mind, for that day
And next moment, forgotten, replaced
like tea left standing cold for too long

Sometimes, the words come dancing back
hesitantly at first, then in a rush
Tapping and tripping in their haste
And when you grab a pen to write them down,
they move back and forth, like motes of light

They laugh and torment you, make you think
Hard and deep, light and quick, slow and lazy
They change moods faster than a blink
And you have to keep up, run along
Or the book will come and be gone again

Many a book has come and gone,
But the words change, they shift, reshift, adapt
Patterns, symbols, associations and experiences
Like an old photo faded with time, captured in a moment
But never the same, with nothing to show except the picture

But words cannot be captured, or put in a frame
They are free and they come and go as they please
Words are like cats.