I almost wrote a poem:
piled metaphors like bricks
of Lego, hoped their reds
and blues would somehow stick.
I varied tone and pace, 
turned streams to rivers:
and then froze them, hoping
to give you the shivers.
I took a point of view,
perversely changed it, then
soared skywards, thinking you
might turn your head again.
I shifted gear, thought speed
might help improve my aim.
Striving to hold the light
I changed the form and frame.
My arrow almost hit. 
The monster almost stirred.
The mountain almost moved. 
I almost found the words.

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