The Beast

Fear the Beast as it stalks your mind

As it chases you through paths murky like wine

You whine for your sanity, cry it’s not fair

The Beast pounces fiercely on every prayer

A specter, it glides through every thought

Every sensation, it turns to a roiling rot

Yet a specter, it is, no power, no form

Only ghost in the night, a thing to mourn

*

But like the father lost his children, it is not without fault, without blame

It deserves our righteous indignation as surely as the losses that summoned it forth

It deserves to know our hurt

Our pain

Our suffering

It deserves to be attacked with sincerity

Like a guest you’ve brought home from England, you should sit down with a cup of tea

And explain, how its conquest was wrong

How the song it sung to you as you tried to sleep wasn’t fair

Wasn’t real

How that song wove terrors and grief into every moment awake

How when you awoke, you felt its crushing grip, or the memory of it

The specter, the Beast

It deserves to be fought with every ounce of patriotic fervor we were taught our fathers deserved

You must launch cannons of smiles and earth beneath your feet

You must send the infantry of infancy, the innocent joy before the word ‘sadness’ meant more than a broken toy

The army marches forth onto the battlegrounds of the fake earth that is the Beast

Your mind

The terror

It isn’t there

Or

So you say

So you want to think

But how could something that isn’t there feel so real

How could something that isn’t there possess you with such a fervent zeal

You’d swear the redneck down your street had moved to your skull and proclaimed irrational fear the new America.

Because a voice that isn’t yours is saying thoughts that you don’t want, and unlike the scientologist down the street, you can’t just avoid the meet, by taking a left instead of a right

You have to hear it preach

You have to hear it screech its banshee call, and you just want it all

To go away

Because even if it never stays

It always comes, like family, too often to feel comfortable

*

Fear the Beast, because even if that ghost isn’t real

Your imagination feels strongly averse to ignoring it

Because sure it could just be a horse, but what if it’s a unicorn?

Or worse, what if it’s a kelpie, a seaweed wrapped demon waiting to drown you on its back?

No, better cower from the ghost than face that

Except the kelpie isn’t real

The ghost isn’t there

But like a soldier with a thousand yard stare

Even if the war isn’t still on,

The echoes will never leave

Because in the darkest times and the most innocent moments,

 in the back of your mind, you can still see

The Beast.

 

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