Last night I dreamed of a massacre.
Visions of life violently fleeting away.
As I sleep in my own bed, I see
A house built without a foundation,
Each room giving way to an apocalypse.
The grim, fateful steps come from every direction,
Where there is no escaping, only expecting.
Stars shoot across the black sky,
While souls take flight in silence, in vain.
Grasping the cold hands of this reality, and
At the same time, kissing this crippling affinity.
Close your eyes dear, and wait for the bittersweet end.
Pray like your a believer,
with arms outstretched like branches in the focus of winter.
An appalling array; a distorted design.
Soon the sun shall mourn like spring rain,
For tonight, the moon has betrayed us.
It's not a dream, it's reality.
April 24, 1915
originally written May 31, 2009