Sculpting A Vague Thought

Rising in a vortex of smoke,
leaving behind this ashen heart.
This intoxicating phoenix emerges,
containing within a potion of thought.
Potion,
flowing in my blood,
leaving behind streaks of black.
Black
burning with pleasure,
black,
hollowing my eyes
and
trembling my arms.
Black,
riding my veins,
black,
spiraling up my arms.
But,
when I cast my hand,
to pull it,
to hold it,
to raise it high,
what I see is
it's gone.
Disappeared,
vanished,
even
dissolved in thin air,
Feeling lost,
disheartened,
missing,
I look down.
And there,
on that blank page,
I see it emerging,
slowly,
spiraling again,
rising,
in drops of black,
black,
forming patterns,
on these sheets of snow.
Patterns we call words,
patterns forming patterns,
patterns dancing ,
on this landscape,
and thus,
sculpting a vague thought.