A HAND ON THE TILLER

I know what it’s like being out of control
When life each day seems like a folderol
There’s something a bit off in one’s soul
Never any time to sweat, or even shiver
Being carried along in some rushing river
Without that grip of a hand on the tiller

When all is just an onward headless rush
And logical reasoning has turned to slush
A hole in the dyke where emotions gush
Now, no longer a place one should linger
When all it needed was an inserted finger
Or a timely squeeze from a tube of filler

The chance for regaining sanity has gone
With life both as a sprint and a marathon
Leaving us all so much to just think upon
Late realisation that guidance was needed
Means that to fate, control was conceded
But that was after all, the supporting pillar

We are responsible for our own direction
With the right advice to make a selection
As the tiller is there to make a correction
Even language cannot ever be any saviour
Words are known for their bad behaviour
Yet no symbolic hook of a French cedilla

One may be left in incoherent mumbling
Without a parachute one will be tumbling
Whilst for that release, continue fumbling
As an opportunity to be saved has passed
We are now in the hands of others at last
Seeing the wry grin on the face of a killer