It slips from my fingers
Cliched grains of sand.
I fill my days with work
Because it slips, more each
Passing day...the slips
Growing faster, exponentially,
Until I feel that I am more
Bound than Sisyphus ever was.
Or more, that I am as Nataraja
At the destruction of the cosmos.
Untethered, barely holding on,
Balancing the worlds in hands
No longer large enough to contain them
And yet like Whitman, containing multitudes.
But are they multitudes bursting forth,
The form and content of creation
Or are they the beginning of an end
I only glimpse beneath my closed eyelids,
Sparks forming and flaring and fireworks
All in my mind, constantly going off.
Old NID
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