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A DREAMERS PLIGHT ON JUDGEMENT DAY Give solely sovereign sway & Masterdom. The air nimbly & sweetly recommends itself unto my gentle senses To commend the ingredients of my poisoned chalice. But this same thing we desire the most That makes us say 'the one I love the most is the one I hate the most'. The love that follows us at times is our trouble. How tender it is to love the babe that milks me? And make my face vizards to my heart, Disguising what they are. False face hide what the false heart knows. From a dream, I hear a shout; a loud one But hear it not, the dreamer; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell For sleep is the cousin of death Which keeps the face pale as lights thickens, The crow flies away to the rooky wood. Nights black agents rouse to their preys. As a dreamer wakes unannounced from nightmare And eats his meal in fear Sleeping in the affliction of those terrible dreams That shakes him nightly. The torture of the mind which maketh lie In restless ecstasy... My virtues will plead like Angels trumpet-tongued. Upon the sightless winds Shall blow the realities (of life) in every eye, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose. Innocence & pity like a naked new born baby Striding the blast or heavens cherubim riding on an horseback Then arose to escape the thrills of the instant Living a coward you ones own esteem. And I asked: is it nights predominance or days shame? But knowing where my path leads to; I follow my journey Even when the dark night strangles my travelling lamp. Would nature hold God's benison from those That would make good of bad and friends of foes? Maybe with vivacious or flushed face, we all go to the grave After life's fitful fever, we sleep well And be not disturbed, nothing touches us further. Just like a possessive man trust are their great grandmothers He sleeps well not, because six feet of solid earth Hath not keep her permanently underground. She would creep out - so many Lazaruses from the grave But after the dead which goes to peace And at the end, hears a voice cast from pure gold, calling Heaven or hell, the book chooses Even he who was left unwept, untombed, A rich sweet sight for the hungry birds beholding Leaves for a permanent and eternal home. Get set. VickWizzy Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP} Copyright ©2009.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

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