Sleep no more
for unto your dreams
the unruly demons
have poured.
The force of army's
from lands of fire.
The denizens of death
won't ever retire.
They are firing
their weapons
with passionate glee.
They keep sounding
loud pounding
noises at me.
Blaring alarms
when the dreams
start to calm,
to bring forth the terror,
the wild ferocious storm.
Every person
asleep in their beds
is in their grips,
their clawed evil mitts.
The scraping sounds
they emit.
Shredding, grinding deep
into your heads.
The sound of death
to the already dead.
An unholy riot,
a disquiet so perverse
and disturbing
that your thoughts
can no longer converse.
Where, oh where
is the watchman?
Where is
the night's saviour?
The knight
of the moons
round table,
the one that will answer
our sleep deprived prayer.
Where is the watchman?
Doesn't he care?
He is in the throes
of a dream of his own
A vision so vicious
that his mind is delirious,
Will he survive? This is unknown.
If he survives, his mind
will be twitching
and itching for death,
wanting to put his guitar
to his head,
and ring out
the loudest chord
he can strum.
To stop the sound
of the marching feet
as they come.
Thanks for reading
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