Hidden away in a dark corner stands the scepter,
red or black, motionless and dusty.
Those skilled in its use understand it,
and long for it in times of need.

Whether some movements have clogged the flow of thought
matters not, for the scepter is ever vigilant against
the wishes of those who intend to usurp the throne of power.
When the fluid rhetoric fails to wrest control from the subduers,
the scepter is snatched up by reluctant hands.

Cobwebs are broken as they wrestle to maintain their control
over the scepter’s place of rest.
The wielder defiantly thrusts the scepter into the muddled crowd.
Over and again, he asserts the pressure of the symbol’s power
and, in the end, the scepter successfully removes the congestion,
the stagnation, of the ill-fated progress down through history.

With the task complete, the wielder sighs,
relieved that he was able to keep his palace safe from
the overflowing, disease-ridden thoughts.
He returns the scepter, devoid of dust, to its place.
Before he can leave, the plunger quickly sheds the water,
leaving only fragments of the battle to remind us of its usefulness.

© 1993 David Carroll. All Rights Reserved.