A succinct yet certain distance
Between that thought
Which you seek out to engage
And that other thought, which
Arrives entirely unannounced
A thought, which you have no
Choice, but to listen to
No amount of seeking
Will find this second instance
For it is not of your own making
It is formed by a hundred, or a
Thousand collisions, which all
Must collide at one and the same time
And from such preponderance
The magic dust will somehow be lifted
Lifted from the dust behind the doors
Lifted from the dust beneath the floors
The dust is lifted, before being sifted
Then gifted back to you, as
If it was the very thing you feared
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