Inchoate

I mourn stories unpublished, unwritten, half-written, and erased. I walk the streets looking down, watching people flicker past me, each a loose thread of color, each carrying a thought that could raise civilizations or unearth them. Ideas buried beneath bias, expectation, and fear. Ideas too shy to face the world, hiding behind promises, running from critics, until they collapse quietly in the graveyard beyond the castle on the hill, where dandelions and roses battle under the weight of the weeping willow.