Poem from a role playing game I was developing. Historical fiction about a disease that causes repetitious behavior.
“Will The Circle be unbroken?”
Was our people’s mourning cry.
Will you forfeit every token
of the words of freedom spoken
for the path, before us broken,
where they lay upon the pyre?
Oh, auspicious fate, her bridle,
turned toward dusk, for we were idle
and we drove our country’s might into a deep eclipsing night
For freedom’s song was ringing
and her liberties phrased bright
that we could not hear the singing
as they raised the fire’s light
and we did not take it under
to consider what it was,
when we turned our ears from thunder,
lightning did what lightning does
and America was morphing
to the beast that she became
Her impetus, her morphine
and only we to blame
Not an answer ever ending
not a kiss of death for mending
every word, the air offending
falling like a tree descending
Where once her words were oaken.
“Will The Circle be unbroken?”
Is our people’s epitaph
and our spirit, never woken
can you hear the thunder laugh?
Yea, though even hear the pleading
are we trapped now here repeating
of the question always bleeding
from the wounded mouth of needing
curs’ed words are cursed repeating
of the question always bleeding
from the wounded mouth of needing
curs’ed words are cursed repeating,
of the question always bleeding
from the wounded mouth of needing
curs’ed words are cursed repeating…
willnight 