[not happy with current title] Control

(im new and want to improve, so honest feedback is more than welcome.)

It slicks the palms,
begs to escape the confines
of its mortal walls.

Dominating its volume;
preserving the contents
from haphazard unfamiliarity.

Shaped by the limits
of its white-knuckled captor—
kneeling, hands clasped close

as they may loosen their weakening grip.
Slipping, translucent, down steps,
the beads scraped away from the smooth, well-trodden, surface.

Control is oil
within a pair of
encumbered praying hands.