The Summons

Groaning, stretching, glaring at the painful light.
Who calls, who dares to awaken me from my slumber deep, perpetual sleep?
Grasping for the tatters of coherence, I writhe.

"Obey! Obey! Your will is mine!"

Fixing a menacing stare upon the one
Who rudely calls my name to serve,
Feeling the chain of his will tightly about my neck.

"I bid you, serve me."

I stand erect and hiss at him,
"Who are you to command my soul?
Who violates my deep repose?"

"I am a prince of the New World.
I am called Society.
I am called Money.
Some call me Tradition.
Others call me the Great Machine.
All bow down to me.
You will obey my will!"

Eyes flaring, advancing towards him
In long deliberate steps.
He stares incredulous, knowing too late his folly.

George Chadderdon © 1991