Palimpsest

Obsession

When I am fully wound,

When I get going,

When I dig in my heels and spin my wheels

When all my ducks are set in a row

And my batteries are charged,

All I ever drink is cold coffee.

No time for coffee.

Focused as a hound on point,

As scattered as a new puppy

Chasing its own elusive tail,

That is me.

There is no time for food

Nor even time for time.

The next word and the next.

The next line and the next.

All else is distraction.

Could be obsession?

It feels like it.

Nothing else seems to matter.

Lines appear as after-images in a strobe

And need to be pinned and fixed

Before they vanish.

Then over and over again,

Shaping, refining, moulding,

Culling when necessary,

Separating wheat from chaff

Distilling something different.

Then thrown back on the inadequacy

Of using words to justify words,

On the limitations of our language.

Like using the Bible to prove

The authenticity of the Bible.

Round and round we go.

And where we stop

Nobody knows.

Writing is addictive.