What Makes Me Wake
By Logan Mott
These walls can speak
And but a whisper that they need
To deprive even a titan of spirit
And rend apart the most unconquerable creeds
To break even the mightiest of nobles
And shatter mountains to seed:
And he, only a man emptied but for dust
Haunted only by costly and sorrowed dreams
Questioned always; bereft of trust
only left with unquenchable need
Alone, he is tortured in this silence
In a cell of more than iron and concrete
In an invincible cage of spirit and surrender
That can shatter even gods at its altar’s feet
Every day that rises, he questions
Solid, he strains silently beneath his grief
Not shying beneath the enormous effort
Enduring, despite the hopelessness of relief
In the emptiness, he asks of himself
From where next his strength shall be conjured
Within the smothered embers of his belief
Yet still, he shall rise into the dying days
Raging resolutely against their feeble light
Knowing well the horrors that will await
To welcome him at the suns last pale might
Time and time again, he will rise from darkness
Haggard and desperate, but blazing belief
His stubborn spirit shall rise yet with him
To somehow conquer the bleakness of his sleep
The faded strength of his heart still feeds him
Afraid, he wonders if this substance is enough
Awake, his mind will question
“I can?”
And louder, fate will answer
“You must!!”
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