Tethered to a stump of memory
a Wish lies bleaching in white isolation.
Dream winds worry its fading outline,
cracked lights shine on it - sometimes.
It wastes. Brittle as unformed ideas,
it breaks. Unvisited, it withers,
almost dissolving, till just subtle stains
remain, ghostly as amputees' pain.
James Mills
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wish-7/
