Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

To open eyes.

I woke from a nightmare. One which encompassed the world.

Not just the world to which I see in passing, in my life and those around me, but one which held the world in a grasp from which escape seemed impossible.

I watched as those around me smiled in their captivity.

They beckoned and called, would pursue, recommend, then demand that I too would smile with them and smile along in the world which they suffered, in which we suffered under the thumb of invisible masters.

Should those masters be addressed, it was dismissed. Should it be pursued, it would be met with anger and denial.

I woke from the nightmare, which encompassed all such things.

And in it I saw the horrors the bird accepting its cage that it might never again take to the wing.

In it, I saw a dog bending to an unfit master who would have others beat it to assert the master’s dominance.

In it, I saw my own children smile and play, carefree in their prisons.

For that is what life is to them. Submission to a cowardly force, a cowardly people, who would through coin and word of fear make the world suffer so it might hold that world in its grasp.

A world as slave to the whims of words and wishes.

I would care not for the world around.

But when I woke from that nightmare, I saw my children, smiling within the cage to which we are held.

A blank tear filled my eye, the burning behind them as though I might cry.

But an anger grew faster. A rage to not be contained to tear or hopeless wailing.

The nightmare which was the world has become a view to which I see and see through.

By any remote power, the hatred has been laid out like tinder in a hot sun. And I have lit the flame and cast it upon that tinder. It will not burn out, for upon it I will place wood again and again and unto the heavens.

It will consume this world, this nightmare. And in its wake leave ash for a world to be reborn anew.

And in the ash will be those who have made this so. Those who have made this necessary.

Burned to nought and forgotten, save for that which none can ever be allowed to forget, the power of corruption, and the rage of the one who wakes.

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