What was this one Called?

Drawing images in my head,
hurriedly moving on, blurring into a moving-picture,
rarely coinciding the conception with its physical manifestation,
and so my thought, kept in secret, often dies silently.

Commonly, I try to fit myself, my very consciousness,
into a space too small in my imagination,
some choked spiral or a receding square keyhole,
these moments have nothing conceptual to stand on (emotivated).

Perhaps that is my ceiling with art,
a moment cannot be captured,
so much as restated, retold,
to experience it, it must be lived.