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Things are really not that good.
Control is everything, and the good
Is not the goal; control is.
The start and end of us all
Is not love or good, but control.
Everything truly good is merely food.
All that’s law is trampled by the rude.
There’s only two forces: Control
And “I won’t be controlled,”
And neither exists
Without the other, and that’s all there is.
That’s it. If you want to know why
Everyone is proudly crazy, that’s why.
If things aren’t good, this is why.
Control is everything, not the good,
And when you do experience the good,
Shortly after, you’re heartbroken.
You realize control has spoken.
The professional, large, sleek animal
Who purrs, and is beautiful?
They will control you and kill you.
No kindness, no law, will save you.
Despair will once again advise you:
The amateurish and the nice
Is all you’ve got. Or seedy vice.
The good is a mystery
To itself. Sunday, a little sublime poetry.