In the moment

in the moment of stillness

inhaling the looming mists of truth

only to die as waves of doubt

lapping at your roots and feeding into the networks

of branches and veins

beckoning another cloud

to nourish your understanding.

in the sporadic movements of fractals

folding in, stretching out, knotting themselves

twirling into a tapestry,

a prison of its own making

only to start the process over

that is where you sit in the centre

and you dare to reach out and touch the strings

tug and twist and weave again

in the hubris of wholeness

you are the spider and the fly

consumed with yourself

thinking 'maybe, just maybe

the web can change by my whim'

maybe, just maybe,

you were never meant to touch the strings

and the web was never spun

in the first place.