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.