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// 3.  My ideas are scattered by the gentlest of breezes 
// Story: A Poetry Anthology 
// by Shaslan 
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When I close my eyes, 
I can create. I can take the 
Material I hold and weave and shape it
In just the right way, until I have crafted a masterpiece.
I can shape and tuck and snip and pin, trim and tease and plait;
But then I open my eyes, and the vision recedes.
It was just a fever-dream, an infantile wish,
A shot at the moon from a foal who 
Dared to dream that he could
Be somepony different. 

I open my eyes, and 
The world wavers before me.
My breath stutters and my hooves shake.
My masterpiece shimmers and fades like a mirage,
And I cannot recapture it. I try anyway — or at least, I try to try;
But my brain and my limbs cannot communicate.
There is a crossed wire, a signal lost, a 
Ghost in the machine, and I am
A stranger to myself.

All I can create is disaster. 
All I can achieve is despair.
All I can do is keep trying;
But it seems like I’ll never get there.