Of Mice and Men
I am a mouse, catatonic with fear;
just trying to stay still and silent,
to survive.
Batted about by an indifferent cat;
for him a lazy afternoon,
for me an aching lifetime.
It has no idea of the torture it inflicts;
no inkling of the consequences,
of its area-of-effect play.
(But he has a plan.)
It doesn't see the damage;
the rents and tears in my flesh,
the terror in my eyes.
(But he loves you.)
Now this vision fades,
and once more I am a man;
no dream, this, merely the truth.
I see a broken spirit,
my vantage from without and within;
a soul missing six of its crucial parts.
Grief and rage glare as beacons from me,
the turn signals on the back of my vessel;
both constantly screaming "stop".
(But he has a plan.)
At one moment listless, at the next wroth,
the only thing whole in me, my sense of right;
and this ceaseless murder of everything dear - isn't.
(But he loves you.)
Take your sympathies and condolences,
and cast them off the dock.
Or turn them into a visit, into spending time,
making new memories to dwell on.
Take your god, if indeed he is yours,
your worship and your dogma.
Every iota, every atom, every wisp of it,
and do me a favor.
Keep that kind of to yourself.
(But... but you'll go to hell!)
Newsflash, friend -
I'm a regular.
Copyright ©
Andy Sprouse
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