Time is half unravelled, it dangles temptingly
Trembling slightly
Quivering with possible disasters.
Can we refrain from touching, fiddling, pulling,
Destroying everything?
Experience suggests not.
At least, not indefinitely.
Eventually, we will drag the whole thing apart,
Into a tangled mess,
Until it lies in a disorganised heap.
What a relief that will be!
But not for long.
Soon we will start to sort out the tangled threads,
Roll them up into a ball
Start to knit them up again.
But we will never complete the work.
We will always leave it unfinished
Always leave a loose thread
Which will hang
Promisingly
Threateningly
Desirably
Waiting
For the next time.
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