Dead Sleep ©
Written on an April day 2004, when the United Kingdom intercepted terrorist plans for a chemical attack on the people of Britain.
Some people did not believe that they would do such a cruel thing to innocent folk.
I, too, fear sleep, for death may be its companion!
The death that spews red from shattered limbs,
Contorted by some blinding nuclear isotope bolide,
Or poisoned lungs choked by malodorous osmium tetroxide,
Or convulsive entrails wretched by some toxic sarin assault.
For in that sleep there can be no benign rest, no poignant benison;
Only a dreadful plunge into the satanic cesspit of terror.
And beside the dispersed corpses, who will celebrate the dead?
What piper will blow an eerie lamentation of pibroch or dirge?
What bugler will trumpet a shrill crescendo?
What choir will chant a cheerless cavatina?
None! For they all must rally to the incongruous cataclysm,
And gather into the incinerator, the stench of unknown human debris,
Lest a pestilence, more virulent than terror, pervades our sombre dreams
Leaving the world a legacy of some grotesque mutant somnambulist,
Insensitive to life, impervious to pain, inconsonant with nature.