how dare we stop watering the very fruits
of our brave imaginations
by strangling ourselves with rancid reality
until we are chocked by the smoke
from fires burning in the fields
of our dreams
is it blood you want?
beheadings, more war
as for me
i shall enter the shadowed depths
of the dark wood
and rest my head upon a soft velvety
green moss pillow
beneath a towering oak
gazing into the endlessness
of Gods cathedral ceiling
and someday wandering into a clearing
i will behold camelot
where right is might
and believe that good will overcome
once again