Ficklety

I am in the middle of a hurricane,

this hurricane of confusion,

knowing not the start and the finish,

and a throbbing pulse the only sensation.

I am in the middle of an unchanging change,

the constant inertia of lost time,

its beginning to make me squirmish,

and its like spoilt good wine.

I begin and end and hang in conversations,

and subtly try to change time’s mind,

and there, kaboom all efforts,

I am left alone behind.

And quick is the pace of thoughts,

and fickle this life’s impulse,

and yet the stunning magic and sheer sunshine,

with them I do elope.

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