Mattter Out Of Control Poem by Panmelys

There's a fever upon me to produce
to be more productive
even prodigiously so
knowing no limit, reason, excuse;
for such sudden profuse activity.

It's like love, sick and suff'ring
from a malaise, a bug,
or virus has attacked each nerve
each sinewy fissure seems
infused with imaginary disease.

A sliding into obscurity
then a rising to reality
tides and waves crash against
what appears a body
pushing to extremity, its soul.

It's creation, destiny overcome
by its own proplulsion
exclusive and alone
struggling against time's tick
looses complete control over matter!

Panmelys 1994