Of Holding

Every time I travel,
I seem to have found more to bear.
The pocket space is stagnant,
But my inventory is exploding.
Lest I be empty handed it keeps coming.
Perhaps I can find refuge in the cubby I am carving.
Spoons are slow going in this cave.
There is light in and around this space.
I can see no end to the suffering.
Wherefore am I unbroken?
Hopeless.
I feel the waves of nausea rising.
My blood stream reluctantly pumping what it can.
A dizzy spell.
All sin, the empty swell.
Where did the days go?
Why is it so hard to be still?
By the second,
The lines of this fragile plot are growing whiter.
There will be cracking and bleeding at the seams.
The hooks cannot be kept from catching.
The time will pass regardless.