Angele Toomey Poetry

Today’s poem is a reflection on some of my best ideas, some of which were shared and others muttered only to myself. Looking back, there will have been thousands of them.

Old ideas
My ideas are falling
off my bones
like rotting flesh.
Once beautifully formed
they are now
just a fetish.
Something held long
after I should have
learned to forget.
But there they are
returning to the soil
from whence I came,
ineffectual.
Everything
has remained the same.