We bow our heads as the night ends with a slumber,
To drift away into an eternal rift.
'Tis the season,
but yet....
I wonder
Who was it really
to bless "us"
with such a perfect gift.
The Abilities we possess are below our
understanding.
We turn off
only to turn on
like
Televisions when you switch them on.
The back up generator,
Injects incinerators,
Flooding arteries,
Until the inner greater,
Presumes to haunt thee.
Nightmares.
Like light glares,
That lead to blank stares,
And that cold sweat right there,
Leads to tight air.
Then you wake up.
Shaken up.
This gift, only resides in the rift.