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Posted by MFish

Sometimes I sleep "The Sleep of the Dead"
with no thoughts or dreams in my head.
An absence of words, so deep inside
stay within my head; are trying to hide.
When I awake from this stupor so deep,
I then know what it is like to sleep.
Unlike the times I get up at three
as the words in my head will remind me,
scribe down to paper, in my notebook,
the words that appear haven't been forsook.
Later that morning, I'll re-read the words,
striking out those are simply absurd.

Ugliness has risen, in our life led,
where many citizens are begging for bread,
in this great country of ours, broken now,
as there is no work or how
to survive, in this, our own land,
as the virus killed, one hundred thousand.
Where is the outrage? The question why,
when our elected leader, continues to lie?

A trail, a path, a rutted road,
marked the journey of the old Toad.
He left the Bog he lived in,
starting his life anew, where it began.
From Bog to trail, through the trees,
hiding in daylight under branches and leaves.
He made his way toward the town,
where his family lived, near the Sound.
Water he craved, back to the Sea,
for this journey is not about him,
but more about the man I be.
I must go now; the light grows dim
as our journey in life is short,
from the time we were born
until life does abort.

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