Control

Control.
It wastes not
like the lust that chases tides,
then tries to take solace in dryness.
But it is lost.

Control
believes in itself,

despite stacks of books

with the irrefutable weight

of a million combined pages.

It is fundamentalism.

Control,

draws on its own skin.

It is an artist that neither

acknowledges the canvas,

nor the fingers he uses to paint.

It is ignorant.

Control:

A safe delusion

and distraction in the

ocean of death and birth

where we are given and taken.

Control:

A grasping at

status beyond man.

Control:

A rejection of

intuitive breathing,

and a swallowing of cloud

that would have one day dispersed

in the revealing of beautiful truth, but

Control:

Impatience.

Written at the beginning of October 2012.