Cycles

I keep too tight control in many ways;
I will not falter and I cannot bend.
Upon occasion this possession frays
But in the main I find my problems tend
To follow from a surplus of distinct
Intentionality, an overplan.
I do not run amock with wild instinct
But hold in place my better part of man
Which, running riot over my intent,
Exceeds itself and causes what it cures:
What I control is what I must lament
And lamentation of itself ensures
Further control, and onward, ever on...
Would I be safe if my control were gone?

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