my dreams are suffering and sorrow

my dreams are suffering and sorrow,

struggle and pain,

heartache and helplessness,

empty cauldrons;

just on the edge of madness;

waking in the middle of the night,

wasted and worn,

a burned out shell,

remembering a life

that never began,

living a death for which

there is no end,

surrounded by faceless names

without hope;

my dreams are suffering and sorrow;

your dead cannot help you now,

they lie silent and cold,

hidden within the flowers and grass,

buried below the final whisper,

no longer concerned with wrong or right,

body count irrelevant,

enemies no more,

for them the war is over,

for you it has just begun;

the voice grows quiet,

the season of words is finished,

it is for this I have waited

all my life;

I am free.

.

.