Misfiled

In the still hours of the night
when darkness reigns
my mind was so suddenly
alight with ideas and
words crowding
my somnolent thoughts
I realized I was writing
the finest poem I had ever
conceived and felt
so completely triumphant
knowing there was no
need to alter one syllable
for the finished product
was superb. So confident
was I that once it was embellished
further while fully awake
it was tucked away safely
in that memory bank
where we dredge up what we
need so casually dependent
on the clarity our brains
bring to such ephemera. But
somehow it has all managed
to evaporate from my full
consciousness. The poem
destined to represent the
fine maturity of my vision
has decamped, dissolved into
the blank slate my memory
has suddenly lurched toward.