It has been said that confidence is a plant of slow growth in an aged bosom. This can also be said of its lack. How crippling is the power of uncertainty and fear! It can reduce an otherwise mighty man to an emaciated personality fit for little more than to exist.
Ironically the victim is paralyzed so effectively by his own power which makes him so weak. In this he is practically omnipotent so far as his state is concerned. Nothing can alter this condition but a fiery judgment that comes into every man’s existence sooner or later and either delivers or destroys the wretched soul depending on his inclination and desire.
I see a BOY.
He hungers
for an acknowledgment and appreciation of himself.
He hungers for love –
which only a good father could give –
but finds none.
“See, daddy? See, daddy?” he exclaims,
waving his arms wildly.
His Daddy ignores him.
Always crestfallen, the boy is unable to cease
trying to prove, to please.
No matter the greatness of his efforts and accomplishments;
they are not enough.
His countenance tells
both his effort and his frustration.
I see a SOLDIER.
What an excellent soldier he is!
What a fine sword he possesses!
All his armament, his physique and his skills
are to be both admired and feared
by friend and foe alike.
But what will he do in
the Firestorm that approaches,
nay, that is even here?
As the father,
it recognizes no sword;
it laughs at physique
and scoffs at skill and experience.
I see a PRISONER…
in a cell.
His cell is small.
He starts and is afraid.
He darts from place to place.
He seeks solace
in his cot, his clock, his sink, his toilet,
his food tray, his allowance, his books and even
his bars.
Though he waits for the light from his window,
he prefers the dark.
At once
it comforts and discomforts him.
It hides him from others
but not from himself.
And it hides others from him.
He receives little consolation
from other prisoners,
whether from that they are
or what they are.
Not at all alone
he is very much alone.
He guards his own cell,
keeping a vigilant watch on himself
lest he escape.
The key to his door
is in his cell;
It is rusty;
his fading eye loses sight of it
and fading memory
awareness of it.
What a wonder!
Why won’t he take the key
and release himself?
Ah! He thinks it to be only a locking key!
That which would release him
he rejects and fears.
A message is passed
through his window
in rays.
Will he discover
that a father
awaits to shower
him
with all that his heart could desire
to its innermost depths?
Will he receive the new weapons and power
to prevail, yea, overcome
in the Firestorm?
Will the message get through
or will the guard see it
and prevent it
hiding it from him
telling him it will not do?
I see a GUARD
FORMIDABLE, thorough,
only secondly by training
but firstly by nature.
“You’re a man, not a boy!”
he says.
“You are satisfied and not hungry!”
he says.
“You’re the father, not the son!”
he says.
“You are an invincible soldier;
nothing can prevent you!”
he says.
“You are not afraid!”
he says.
“You are sound in sight,
pre-eminent in memory
and evaluation!”
he says.
“You’re not a prisoner”
he says,
“but free to come and go
possessing many books
cots
sinks
toilets
rooms
not to mention ample time and money”
he says.
“The Firestorm is a myth,
a figment
of a dreaming
idealistic
fanatical
religious
grandstanding
misfitting
zealot,
with more opinion and
only one way,
a narrow way,
a blind way
of seeing…
I think…”
he says.
(Make fast the prisoner there, guard)
“I KNOW”
he says.
He takes out pleasant cloth…
“You’re not alone”
he says.
“See, family,
friends,
associates,
some close.
What more can you
rightfully
ask?
Beware”
he says.
“Be satisfied
with what you have”
he says.
“It is a virtue
to be content
with your lot”
he says.
Persuading, the GUARD
conceals the key
with pleasant cloth,
cloth neither good nor evil of itself
but pleasant,
and secures
the PRISONER
a while longer.
Lethbridge, 1988
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