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.