Chicanery

I have measured against myself and come up short
As my ambitions and deliverance are all out of sort.
There is only talk among words and no one can better contort
than I who consistently resort...
to use manipulation for sport
to send waves of lust to only abort
to set up the weak to falsely exhort
and decay the structure I claim to support.

I take these words and sit to assort
assembling them in a fashion that will begin to report
That better days will dawn, just beyond the next port
but the storm rages on with an endless escort
and it has come down to this last resort.

That words have no claim to sustenance of action
They cannot stand more than any subtraction.
They are the mere canvass, not the bright benefaction
And they taste of a staler satisfaction.
There is still time to stave of distraction
and redeem for a moment, even if only a fraction
to move towards the promise with swifter traction
And claim what is mine; actual self satisfaction.