A poem invaded the headspace around the pillows- here
where sweat and sleep lay beneath the crushing pressure of heavy thought
crushed into the outline of a man, visibly staining the upholstery of this temporary coffin
that stores the undead, dreamless, visionless
on the verge of consciousness like the continental shelf drop-off
wading back into the self towards a cold, dead lighthouse beneath
a the cosmic horror of a black hole North Star
this aerial battle, dog fight, swatting beast palms with futility at the waves of planes
sent to deliver a dose of thought, interpreted however one will
an atom bomb lands straight between the eyes, with a meek groan
to all the atoms, a roar that splits the fabric of space and fulfills their purpose
the message, delivered, and the colossus, monstrous, slow, creaks to life
though for prayers of pity, and begging for sympathy, take flight elsewhere
to a friend in need, with these words, that would greet the world through the filter of poetry
so early, so wearily, so tired, dragging from the lair of impenetrable haze
would it even be an act of love, if these went away
and there was peace and quiet, mouth-waters this monster
to lay-about alone and wallow in for days, could that lethargy be forgave
that is faux to the empathetic gift of this burdensome inspiration
hailed generously as intellect, and attacked viciously as always the joy of imagination
by the joyless, those that purposefully fail to see it is pure to put the mind towards creation
tiny little fighter planes, bombarding with their ideas and leaving behind the radiation
the negativity in traces of memory, they enter into a mausoleum dedicated to self-flagellation
bent on desecration, this invasion
leaves behind fires on the mind, meant to express the desires to express
self-aware-selfish-selfless martyrdom, this energy should not solely belong to the slothful titan
whose lust for solitude is truly wherein lies the greed
the dilemma of mischief is convincing oneself not to do a self-justifying misdeed

How does one nation embodied by this giant, move another back to life in their love of writing
and if these thoughts that spur these poems are what it takes, an invading force, would it be an act of love
to commit an act of war in wishing them upon another?