Slipping Away

The story slipped away from my grasp
Like my children
Once they had grown.
I tried to catch it and it teased me
Running from one corner of mind to another
But my limbs have wearied
Of the burden of fetching and carrying.
My reflexes have slowed down
From the sheer monotony of routine chores
That are a series of mechanical moves
That needs no brains and just a bit of brawn.
Like an amoeba,
The story keeps changing shape,
Stretching itself now to grow in this direction
And then in that
Deliberately defying the authority
Of its would be author
Punishing her for neglect, indifference, insularity

And then one day,
As we kept on at our endless game of
Hide and seek
My story and me
It became an amoeba
A glossy, gooey, organic mass
Reproducing and decimating itself
With a blend of sadistic and/or masochistic glee
And I keep watching
This strange metamorphosis of
What might have been my own creation
Helplessly