Sleep And His Brother Death Poem by Shalyn Stachmus

I hate it when I'm awake.
I think I'd rather be sleeping...
Deep autumn's closed today,
while the knell still mocks our weeping.

All along the roseate road,
lurid trees reach out to lance you.
Thrust through the heart they will go;
Never been such a cold milieu.

I need to absolve this course,
that I might make it through, alive.
From this vestige, I'll come forth,
And rekindle the light that's died.

If you fall in doors, perdu,
your sacred light will gather hells.
All your worries flourish, too,
so blow those trumpets hard, angels.

And arise.