Racing through my mind and
scattering pages like
some kind of haphazard
leaflet campaign, where each
piece of information is chopped
up and split across A4 pages that
really do not wish to be gathered,
merely content to float on wind
and gust alike, dancing across
the skies,
and yet,

I still persist in my hurricane,
throwing both caution and
creation to abandon, where it
may land in ponds full
of silt and sand and sadness,
that water pooled is as salty
as any mortal tears,
and yet,

I still continue to frantic my
path in stacks and reams of
data that collated means
nothing,
analysed is the only
course of contemplation but
a mind still and not mine
is the requirement,
and yet,

I struggle forward, searching
for indexes unmade, chapters
untethered, appendices
removed by surgical authoring,
that once held a pathway,
all but appealing to only
Robert Frost.
and yet,

I maintain, I feel success
is within a simple grasp,
so close to fingers as to
be oiled with the human
grease of sweat as I
rifle, shattering tidy,
creating chaos,
And yet,

I never end.