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World War I

This four-minute masterpiece lingering at 3:58 A.M.,
With a fluttering melody. 
Visit not my brazen eyes as they dream,
It is I who dreams with eyes open.
Thy bewitching virtual, deliver me from thy storm;
Give me time as I speak my chants.
“Could you wait for me by your door?” a response.
Hear thy caged wren as it sings for freedom,
Heed this high-strung being, forgive his mind 
That longs for space,
As the lungs breathe out the 21st rural smoke. 
“It’s your night,” the words that had summoned me.
Bed of strawberries and guns that pull my body down;
T’is the place I lie upon—never rested.
Wail; listen to me as I stand before you—an alluring apparition.
Pray, pray for me, my dear, as I face this perplexity;
From this that had stood before me—the luscious red, curled daydream,
And through his vision of me,
That had seen the angel from his dark brown eyes.
Could you be gentler?


“Have mercy!” My knelt-down prayer;
I shout it! I shout it!
But in sealed lips, would you still show me grace?


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