Winking in our dreams, slumbering past our night's error sleeping deeply beyond the breaking hour, leasing mass murderers to slip inside our care. Winking in our dreams, twisting complicit in cradle’s red linen, we are drowning of our slacked truth sleeping deeply inside our mourning nine eleven. White sound weaves our breath upon our headless tyranny, slips inside our busy lives. Dawdling hope, we are drowning of our worthless and quiet dissent. It is time to awake, cease and desist our hideous moment, let slip our blade’s humanity within its rib and awake open eyed of our most looming descent. © 2007 by mark prime/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)