Reaching into darkness deep inside, pulled hard on all the corners I could find. Neat and orderly, becoming all were they, with only pockets of others disarray. I worked at them with diligence; I tucked in here and fluffed out there. I smoothed a wrinkle, brushed off dust, but it never was quite enough. And soon I found more hours spent in cleaning up the disarray, with much more care upon detail than any time before I've dared. Where once the others in the home would smile upon my newfound zeal, their grins have faltered to despair in fear of assiduity. They find all things must go just so plastic wrapped, evened out, segregated. Seen inside my mind, a balance kept; this is how my life must go. * * * * * Ragged nails clawing through the front door, heavy, cruel steps bringing heartache and gall, refusing to organize, clear away, dust, ashes fell smothering what's needed most. And for days in fog I keep my haggard head down. I struggle in pain for my breath – just to walk; and I stuff my aching grief in to tightly closed bags until I can resume my regular role. In wicker basket hairbrushes go in bristles up, the toothpaste points left, the rattail points down. The towels are spread open intending to dry but limited always in number to five. Season themed candles number two per each shelf; each component's volume must be even and set. Calendars are updated Sunday mornings before noon, The thrice checked e-mail's a compulsory rite. But there are pockets of clutter and jumbled up stuff where forbidden, restricted am I. Profusely sprawling and creeping like mold and no fluffing or tucking's allowed. On the edge I wobble like a frightened drunk I think due to the access that I've been denied to all the useless, and messed up and repetitious things my laboring hands and mind cannot find. Forcibly I turn my concentration now to that which can still lie within my grasp and perfection, yet unattained, I strive to reach though the definition of which doesn't last. * * * * * Then, again, ragged claws through my front door. Heavy steps, heartache and gall. Death's mess and dust and ash. No way to clean or to clear all the trash. And for days again my head is down and the struggle comes once more to breathe and into the bags all my grief has been stuffed but overflowing bags just don't want to zip up. I look in and out, wildly round, at all the things, cleaning up, I've tried to do. All my posturing, playing, pretending; my life's control is the one thing I've not. Life itself is cold and it's soulless, not knowing love nor compassion's regret. Lacking guiding restraints of these simple warmths ensure life's only control can be chaos.