The Dream

These days are long And I live them twice as hard, half as strong Her fast, wrongful stare, her false tears, glass streams, reflecting, coldly mirroring last dreams. A cold lie, my roaring conscience cries, screams. These days are grey Still we squint and stare and lead them all astray. Tanned as tar and lead, the malice traces lines we carved ourselves in our own faces. Her stifled cry, alive our burning pulse, Races These days are cruel But the wretched fall too far to feel renewal They'd falter, fear the end of their narration, drowned in waves of false emancipation. Our painted skies, disguise the tears of a blind Nation. These days are yours Yet the yoke still binds you, beaten on all fours Dead between the waist and what was wasted Dust it seems now all that mouth has tasted Your tired eyes , betray the fact you never really faced it.