Sharp Instrument

He wields it like a broadsword, and with a pompous pride. He assumes he has a moral right to have it by his side. He worships all it stands for, a simple devotee, and if it hurts and causes pain – it’s not his fault you see.

It never ever alters, in battle it won’t yield. When using it in his defence it makes an awesome shield. He even stabs his friends with it, which causes them to flee, but when it wounds and hurts them – it’s not his fault you see.

At times it hurts each one of us, but always it is right. It cannot weep for casualties, it’s righteous in its fight. He knows that it won’t let him down, there’s nothing with more dignity, but when it causes suffering – it’s not his fault you see.

He’s not afraid to face it, though it cuts him like the rest. Throughout his life he’s trusted it but still he hasn’t guessed. That just because it’s right and true, it does not guarantee, that when it hurts and causes pain, it’s not his fault – you see.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

The Beast

It lives inside, surviving at my expense. Parasitic, it takes nourishment from my hope and will. Freedom cowers under its viscous fog. When it slumbers it is weak but rests somewhere safe.

Secreting a sedative it renders me helpless. I feel no pain from its invasion but pain comes from its presence. I witness their pain but feel bereft of responsibility. The part of me that knows the truth is weak and ignored.

I reluctantly shut down under its superior strength. Numbness stifles the head, and my energy drains. Helplessness feels natural, perversely comfortable. Desires are feeble and it’s an effort to speak. The beast thrives.

Anger roars easily, like a tormented lion in a cage prodded and poked by callous passers-by. Music sedates the beast and reaches inside to awaken me. When exposed to it, my malevolent visitor grows weak as my emotions live and dance freely once more. I am enthused by its therapeutic effect.

The louder the medicine, the stronger the result, and the beast retreats further. But unperturbed, it sleeps and cares little. It scoffs at this temporary threat. Music is briefly all-powerful, I bask in its healing and the fog scatters.

Soon after the quiet returns, the beast creeps back – the beast thrives.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2000

Crisis

I’m host to a siege carried out in my mind, I feel like the hostage and captor combined. I’ve been taken over by fragments empowered, and I want to break free but I act like a coward.

Feelings inside me have fed on my fears, suddenly living when dormant for years. I’m rejecting my island in search of things better but hurting my family and turning them bitter.

I’m in a small boat far away from the shore which is so far away I can see it no more. I’m tethered by rope and the rope is secure but I know that I can’t stay out here any more.

I have in my hand the sharpest of knives and to cut it will free me but damage some lives and I fear that I’d find with the passage of time that the worst of the damage could happen to mine.

If my hands pull the rope and I head back to shore will I even be welcome back there anymore? And what if I go back and stem the blood flow only later to damage much more if I go?

I’ve heard of islands where the weather is great but something inside says I’ve left it too late. My island is temperate, and has no extremes, are the ones that I look for just fanciful dreams?

Maybe my island is something to cherish or at least is a place where I’m able to flourish.
Maybe those islands that bask in sunshine have men, just like me, that lust after mine

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001