Mock Epic: The Dawn-Slaughter Of Sleep Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Alarm, bronze-throated herald vile,
Who shatters dreams with cruel, recurring cries.
Invoke the Muse of Snooze and Softened Sheets,
For here begins the war at morning's gate.
Meanspirited Night had scarcely loosed her grip
When Dawn, pale general, raised her timid light.
Within the chamber lay the hero prone,
Entombed in quilts, a veteran of rest,
His breath still marching to the drums of dreams
Where he was king, undefeated, free.
Then rang the Call. O treacherous metal scream!
It struck the ear like arrows tipped with glass.
The hero stirred. One eye, like wounded scout,
Crept from its lid to spy the enemy.
He groaned—earth's oldest curse—then sought the spell
Of Snooze, that siren of delaying hope.
Once more he fell to sleep's deceptive arms,
Where minutes masquerade as harmless flies.
But lo! The Alarm returned, more savage now,
Unmoved by treaties signed in drowsy faith.
It cried of duties, clocks, and crowded roads,
Of obligations forged by daylight's law.
The hero turned, entangled in the sheets,
Which clung like loyal soldiers, sworn to Night.
"Remain, " they whispered, "just a moment more."
The pillow offered dreams as bribe and balm,
And darkness pleaded softly, "Stay with us."
But hunger stirred, a traitor in the gut,
And conscience knocked, a stern and nagging guard.
The sun advanced its spears through curtained walls;
The bed began to warm—its magic broke.
With groan heroic, tragic, half-divine,
The warrior rose, unsteady as new-born fawn.
His feet met floor—cold tundra of despair.
He stood. He swayed. He lived. The battle done.
The Alarm lay silenced, humbled, on the desk.
The bed lay ruined, rumpled, stripped of joy.
And thus the dawn was won—not without loss:
For though he woke, his soul still slept awhile.