Not a poem

And as I sit and ponder,
With books empty spread,
Mind wanders to the place,
Where she has fled.

This is not a poem,
For a poem I cannot write,
Dried has these hands been,
You cannot force with might.

The layers coded deep inside,
Curled, folded, nested right.
The locked away firefly,
Sleeps in eternal night.

A conscious choice,
The unconscious unicorn,
Lying in the white egg,
Awaiting to be reborn.

The frozen flows,
The stranded space-time,
The glacial fields,
Words still fail the mime.

No, this is not a poem
Of spontaneous emotions,
A forced prose at the most,
The sleeping devil waits. :)