THE END OF THE DREAM

As the sun peeps out
over misty morning hills
and the dawn chorus calls
with its piercing shrill,
the demons of the night
fade slowly to grey,
with a sidelong glance
at the few that got away.

He rises and stretches
and with sleepy eyes,
breathes a sigh of relief
and a laughing surprise.
The nightmare lingers
in his foggy mind
until a final shiver
leaves the shadows behind.

He opens the curtains
and bathes in the sun,
the heat of all life;
a new day begun.
Out in the garden
playful squirrels flee,
across the lawn
and up into the trees.

A breath of fresh
and life giving air,
the trickling brook
near the fox’s lair.
The sighing sounds
from the tallest trees
as the leaves are rustled
by the morning breeze.

He stares out in wonder
at the glorious scene
as a Blackbird serenades
the woman of its dreams.
But beyond his control
and outside of his will
the doubts creep back in
with a slow stealthy chill.

Why must there be
so much pain in the world;
such hate and division
as the colours unfurl?
There’s so much to see,
to feel and to love,
from the ground at our feet
to the skies up above.

When did mankind
lose the will to live;
to help one another;
to share, to give.
To feel compassion
for sisters and brothers,
for family, for kinfolk,
for any and all others?

Do we no longer care
for the ones who surround,
ignoring their pleas
and heart-breaking sounds?
When did we lose
the ability to be
the ones to help
the persecuted, flee?

Defend the weak,
the young and old.
When did our hearts
stop caring; grow cold?
We are born to this world
as equal wholes,
before slowly sinking
down  hate-filled holes.

"Us and them",
must it always be?
Does the time draw near
when we all have to flee?
The land of the free
is in shackles and chains,
they’ve sold us all
down the desolate drains.

With a sigh of resignation
he shrugs and turns away,
the dawn is dying;
the skies turning grey.
A dark storm approaching
from the distant horizon,
the tumult of death;
of dangerous division.

There’s a wave of despair
that is too hard to fight,
its better to sleep through
the oncoming night.

So behind damp eyes
he retreats and hides,
as the shadows return
where the demons reside.

Beyond the panes,
the sky turns to coal,
The Reaper is laughing,
collecting his souls.

A bountiful harvest
for the gates of hell,
yet there, in the distance,
"Is that the toll of a bell?"




*

Written by Darren Scanlon, 23rd August 2014.
Revised 13th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.