Control


And if my fingers tremble
It is not fear, it is not worry.
It is disorder’s call
For a lash of purpose;
It is the hounds of collapse
Howling for my leash.

And if my gaze heaves
It’s not despair, nor is it doubt.
It is the thousand paths
My war can tread on;
It is the aimless future
Waiting for my cause.

I will engrave my will
On the skin of rebel thoughts;
I will build up my cause
With the ashes of failure.

And if my lips don’t move
It is not loss for words, nor absence.
It is the minefield of my silence
Where petty woes lose limbs;
It is the ground of calculation
For the optimal march.

And though I dress myself for war
It is not war I am preparing.
For should the world obey me not
There’s always gas and matches;
And though my fingers may tremble
Pay them heed:
They will close the eyes
Of the odds against our favor.