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

Imagination

Lying awake in the middle of the night, he could definitely hear something creaking.
He wanted somebody to put on the light, but the rest of his family were sleeping.

“I don’t want to hear it, it’s frightening me, I want to get under my covers.
But then I won’t see, when it comes after me – which it will – when it’s eaten the others”

He’d call out for mum, but couldn’t risk shouting, so he started to whisper a prayer
Then a funny thing happened, without any warning, his curtains were opened and mum said, “Good morning”.

© 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

Contented fool

A little boy
named Willy
was destined
to be silly
It was his fate
he couldn’t wait
he told his mum
he would be great
he wouldn’t care
what people say
he would be silly
every day

Was 8-years old
when first he told
his mother that
when he was old
he’d be the best –
the silliest
and it would be
his life-long quest.
She wasn’t sure
but tried her best
she didn’t think
he’d have the zest

But it was true
It came to pass
he grew up as
a silly ass
very skilled
at being daft
he never stopped
it was his craft.
Throughout his life
he played the fool
they laughed at him
each day at school

And when he had
to go to work
they all just thought
he was a jerk
his humour was
both blunt and snappy
effective though
and he was happy
When he died
he left a hole
and people missed
his cheerful soul

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

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