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.

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