Thoughts Have Hands

Fear rises up on the wings of imagination,

A dragon that fans the hot air of emotion. 

Its spiked tale drags the improbable into vaunted plausibility.

Its ragged edge draws back the curtain of reason, 

Revealing bloody dramas, and a discordant chorus of enemy chants,

familiar or not.

Dragon breath churns disbelief, 

And our point of view into fiery chaos,

Leaving dead bodies back stage, 

As disturbing reminders that our nightmare scenario continues.

chew at the brain like a zombie feast. 

And we hesitate even to leave home after dark,

Or go out armed, suspicious of strangers, 

And ready to fight.

Warily, we hurry home with ready made purchases,

And settle back into our reserved seats,

To watch another well rehearsed installment of the chills and thrills,

Paid for by the fox and hounds of imminent destruction.

Such lives are like the friendly dog gnawing

contentedly on a favorite bone,

Trusted implicitly, ignorant of the possible,

Until that day you return to find her panting and pawing

Over the remnants of favorite pillows and quilt, strewn haphazardly 

across your bedroom floor.

You dive head first into the implausible loss,

Swim furiously against a current of rage,

gasp at what had been, or should be, 

until exhausted and in tears, 

you sink to the floor, and

gaze distractedly over a disordered world.

Numb but still under the magic spell of the dragon’s scary tale.

 
THH By Tom Hardin, Sept. 7, 2015

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