The Thought (a poem)

The Thought
it came to me
lighter than air
smoother than The Pieta
Michelangelo's moulded marble
sweet Jesus in the arms of Mary
It came to me
This thought
Dangling infront of my lips
ready to be formed
To be named
To be given life
Waiting to be curled into letters
And just like this
Brushed its own lips to mine
Pursed its idea
for me to inhale
but only a fragment
before it was gone with the
Out-blown breath
and never to return again