Control with Finesse

What’s it to be?

The cushion or the hammer for thee?

Ultimately, the games that plagues only goes deeper into the rabbit hole with every turn.

Every churn, twisted to the point that makes it hard to breathe; blood and sweat to my sleeve.

Alleviate to what excess or do I simply just leave, to run away and never stay, or simply running to run another day.

Please don’t leave!

The devil you love today maybe more finesse prone that the one you meet tomorrow when you run far far away.

To whom doth these trees, ants and plants belong.
Don’t you see I am but one, and an island in my domain is all I seek.

Suddenly the doors creek, a sweet patter on the back..

Sensational, as the heart seeks, bloody flow creeps, to the ear drum, how fun as the ear numb for the self evaluation hath me feeling some what glum.

Wishing I had listen to my shadow and loud flows within my crown, begging for the days to be numbered, perhaps one concept of control will come tumbling down.

Murdock

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