The blank screen hums a silent plea

The blank screen hums, a silent plea.

I try to write, for them, for me.

A sentence forms, a perfect phrase,

a thought begins, through foggy haze.

But then it shifts, it slips away,

like trying to hold a sunlit spray

of water. Words, just out of reach,

beyond the grasp of human speech.

A sieve, my mind, letting the good bits drain.

Just static left, and tired brain.

What is this work, this endless chase,

for something that leaves no clear trace?

Just air, reforming, then it's gone.