Control

The heart-

Is a creaking wood floor.

It shapes for the seeking

An endless search,

A blank screen taunting

Each step.

And it’s confusing –

The profound belief

Of absolution,

Control.

Creak. Creak.

Beauty, though

Through the strangest tests

That see re-birth of stars

As a litmus for death.

Nothing here is remote.

It’s all hazy and bright

Like a nebula floats.

At present – the steps lift

Above all wooden tropes,

Control

Yielding

Pulse

Finding

Sentient

Hope.