The Book of Control
by:
Kristen Mcgreagor
A manuscript
A quadrangle
Printed from the bias hand of the writing hand
Controls all who interpret it
It speaks of glory
With its empty promise
With language made of insincere symbols
Created by a crumb of wonderment
It feeds on human limitations
A pattern of predictability
Like the somber wolf hiding in the gloom
Aware of its prey’s next move
It terrorizes of the worst punishment
Being alone forever in a pit of flame,
For denying its truth
It condemns our rational minds
For the searching of honesty
Its master plan
To eat the world in its hand
All of us cloned, repeating the same words
With facades over our eyes
Afraid to look at the other side
Even as I scribble these symbols
I feel an omen
For anything that opposes it words
Are a theurgist’s wrathful gyp
So I leave you with one question
Is uncertainty so dire?
When everything that approaches our senses
Is incoherent with the writers own glory






