Let Them Rest (Perhaps They Dream)

Abject night casts an embracing allure, especially upon those in slumber,
exhausted spirits, broken ego’s from yesterday’s sun drowning under.
Thickened blood, creaking spines, burdened minds of defeated men,
to let them sleep, or to wake them hurried is the dilemma there and then.
The truth is that every yawning sun is betrothed unto a borrowed moon,
and every dawn must surely break, for liberation is the only boon.
For now I watch the towers burn, I see my people in darkened homes,
while fearless and hungering, the hounds of war, rabid and tirelessly roam.
The monuments standing from centuries ago, stand witness to a dying breed,
and the heroes few and fallen now, patriots less than those in need.
The pantheon meant for vocal wars, a colosseum now for spilling blood,
and where once spoke outspoken men, rests the eternal uprising flood.
I say to skies that gaze in horror, do not weep lest you add to sorrows,
let my people dream and wallow, let them rest in darkness hollow,
they need not wake to the sound of war, for helpless they would stop and stare,
let them rest, perhaps they dream, of a brighter sun, without a care.

Left To Weep, And Envy Thy Rest.

In the valleys so dark, and skies that rue,
I see my nation, my people, my children,
among their legacy, but mingles the hue,
of a purpose left wasted in egos belligerent.
More than their joys, I have witnessed tears,
miserable reminders how fallen they are,
but more than their patience, indolence I fear
has led them to slumber ignominiously par.
Seeing them defeated, something is awake,
a pondering, curious figure of black,
a visage so horrid, I turn for Gods sake,
and look to my east, yet it looks to my back.
Its gentle steps I can hear, not wanting
and its fingers pondering through the very skin
of every shadow standing silent and taunting,
but holding its breath as if living were a sin.
Its serpentine tongue slithering at my feet,
watchful its gaze, while scratching the soil,
and the fuming horns being thus from the heat
while its whipping tail now drops from a coil.
The bleeding crows that hang from the boughs,
I imagine the fear now frozen in their eyes
must also be prevalent in my own that bow
down to the dust where my destiny lies.
My flesh being torn at the seams of its ponder,
hot blood dangling from the vines of its crown,
and all the while it is I who must wonder,
when will the insatiable beast fall down.
I embrace you, my curse, my wound, my fall,
feed to your fill, until I have withered away,
I forgive you, my nation, my people, my all,
rest from a caprice until the end of all days