The chalky Cliffs of Dover crumble in my fist.
Tucked away neatly in my pocket.
I have the power to become a person completely in control.
The tension seething in my chest no longer.
All I need is the key.
A simple motion not readily accepted by the masses.
'Tis not we who wait for the dust to settle but for the dust to settle we.
The reuptake of life hidden but always near.
We care not for the hands that pass the life from person to person.
For they could be from the grimiest of grim and still our hands are cupped for their foul crooked benevolence.
We are gods and what is purity without the soot and piss and scum to define it.
Synthetic courage and emotional restraint what more could the people want.
Only a few care for the real me, the anxiety, the truth.
Why pander the rest when I have complete control within a plastic seal, tucked neatly in my pocket.