Ideas are cheap, mere thoughts.
Synapses firing, synthesizing the minds ecstasy.
By the grace of God they come in great abundance;
Blades of grass on the field of consciousness.
But good ideas are priceless; needles hidden in the hay.
Rare birds abreast in cloudy cloudy sky,
before they fall seized by possession itself, captured in the dusty net of needs.
Caged, coveted, priced, traded.
Woven into the fabric of reality.
Another thread in the robe of daily life.
Discarded in the pile of history.