We work together you see!
We work together on my mind
To make it soft as putty to his hands
So he can mould it, twist it, confuse it
Into following his whim like
The trained teen soldiers which he pushed off
From home ground into a desert that swallowed
Many more like them before.
It seems he’s not doing a terribly good job.
I seem to be drifting into my own world of dissent,
Not fearing a single shadow that creeps
In the corner of my room or on my neighbour’s wall,
Or under my bed.
I talk to them and they talk back.
And we have a nice long chat about the state of the world culture
And where we’re headed under his guidance,
Over a pack of Gitanes, which is soon empty.
Someone wonders aloud why I don’t have any Marlboros.
I say that he’s working on my mind
Firing up the furnace of hate in my head,
Darkening the shadows of suspicion,
And choking the words in my throats
Before they come out to poison the air,
Which he says they do.
We all have a laugh.
Then some one says that he might be listening.
And we laugh again.
Then someone suggests that we go out
And get some Marlboros.
We all agree and head for the door.
The door is locked with a lock of hatred,
Which none of us recalls putting there!
We heave and tug,
We push and hit it with anything
Heavy we could get our hands on.
But, no cigar!
We give up and go back to our places
And sit around the fire of hate
That had just started burning in our midst.
Someone suggests that he must’ve put it there.
Hmmm…. Maybe he did.
But, why lock it with hate
When it wasn’t in our midst before
The door was locked?
Maybe, our colours frighten him?
No, can’t be the colours!
Maybe, our voices sound like demons to him?
Maybe. But, he has them at home, too.
Maybe our clothes?
Could be, but can’t be.
Maybe, we frighten him?
Could be. Must be! Can’t be.
Maybe, he’s afraid of fear?
Yup, that must be it.
As many ideas as the voices,
As many voices as the shadows
In my dark room as I wait for him to
Start working on my mind again
As soon as the shadows withdraw
Or abandon me to his mercy.