with sudden clarity

what we illuminate we do not see
the agent is the victim of the age
the letter is the prisoner of the page
and yet the leaf doesn't define the tree
from the narrow passages we flee
seeking the open spaces of our rage
to act the tyrant on the open stage
the moment doesn't mean but must be
enough that there's a chance for light
to creep right in and make us smile
before we turn and face the will of fate
beings that congregate in dead of night
may be kept off our backs for a long while
the principle will not define the state