Strings

There is fear in that which I grow to see, The sharp sight of my eyes becoming keen, And they cut, Cut down to bone and bare means, Shred and tear into basic things, Softly subtle while spoken unseen, Shredding new relentless rents mercilessly, Justice-less judgments of tampered glass, Nothing within vision can garner pass, As protrudes from the victim in the view Is ghastly and wry strings of both heart and mind, Wiry tassels waiting to be taken, Tempting endless me to be tempted, To pull on these simple strings, A tug to me simple and unseen but by we, We who invent these means these simple strings, Your being left to be brought and bid, Broken or baked, mashed or unmade, Gasp at the grip that holds gain, It is none but your bane, You shapeless such shall be recreated, Strings of subtle lines to be refined into New designs morphing at wills of mine through time, Your river-way veins will pulse in my name, Beat of drums themed to my rhythm and tune, Curse of intimate gain undefined by moral signs, Your healthy bones should not crack Under weight of personal vibrations, But curse of age and saying has it seen, Abuse intention irreverent, As I pull I am pulled, Heart and mind, Just made to be pulled, In this life like weeds.