The Writer's Hand

What is your want, perpetual invalid Whose fist is always beating on my breast's Bone wall, incurable dictator of my house And breaker of its peace? What is your will, Obscure uneasy sprite : where must I run, What must I seize, to win A brief respite from your repining cries? Is it a star, the passionate short spark Produced by friction with another's flesh You ache more darkly after. Is it power : To snap restriction's leash, to leap Like bloodhounds on the enemy? There is no grip Can crush the fate you fight. Or is it to escape Into the dream-perspectives maps and speed create? You never listen, disillusion's dumb To your unheeding ear. But see my hand, The only army to enforce your claim Upon life's hostile land : five pale, effete Aesthetic-looking fingers, whose chief feat Is to trace lines like these across a page : What small relief can they bring to your siege!