What Can Be Simply Said Poem by Ananta Madhavan

It should be easy to go with no care into the midst of things;
But somehow the habit of worrying takes over command,
And all one can do is to watch it happen once again:
The killing of impulse by routine, the eddying of thought,
The surrender to utterly trivial things,
The shredding of the mind's wholeness.

What does it matter in the short run or the long run?
What can be simply said is not asking to be said.
There's a gap between words, any words. Impulses
Ordinarily splutter, sputter, connections are implicit,
But refuse to come in molecular chains, ready linked.
That can also underlie a poem.