Buzzing in the mind.

Frenzy in the fingers.

You whirl and ripple,

twist and turn.

Like a disposable bag flapping in the wind,

snagged by the stray spike of a lamp post.

You are snared by busyness,

hooked by occupation.

One day, the bag tears away from the pole,

hurt, but free.

Realising there was ground beneath it,

a sun above it,

life teeming in the trees.

Learn to be present, bag of busyness.

For within boredom,

there is presence.