Feeling for the Keys

Chaos and the ease of a miss-fired synapse,
this one's severed even, blocked by fury,
a destruction of one's own mind for control,
as if to show the penalty for countless mistakes,
show it the door and slam it after their exit,
and if their knocking drives you mad,
take the matter out of their hands quench its fire.

Yet an iron fist lacks the eyes of foresight,
even to reveal the thread of reason,
behind a reasonable doubt, but
rather it seeks to squelch all pretense of dissonance,
best left to the orchestrator and not his orchestra,
as iron sharpens iron, so is one worn,
so watch what you shear off,
lest its absence haunt your character,
stick to the purpose, leave death to its enemy.