after the title

when would this magic fingers run away from me
like fish-hooks gathering every little idea that was left
sinking inside my brain uninvited
dwelling for hours and hours until it hurt my eyes
whispering fierce phrases with no meaning
wandering around till nothing was left
like a barren free of ideas-land of death
quick to melt away at a stare
gathering all what was left behind
like a circular stair, trying to hide something in plain sight