Philosophy/Poem) Rest



Is there really such a thing as rest for the mind

Does the mind shut down as we slumber in sleep

When we sleep does our mind join us in the rest

What is it that we see when we close our eyes at night


Do we see people and fields of beautiful flowers

Do we see the horrors of places like Allepo in our dreams

How is it that we can sleep as innocent blood is shed

Do we pretend that it is far away so it doesn’t matter


The Soul can not be killed yet the flesh endures the strife

How does the mind justify the killing of the innocent children

How do we pretend that God does not care about their lives

Are we just Christians in name of do we follow God’s Light


Death is certain this is something we can not escape in this life

How we choose to live determines how it is we choose to die

Will we be cold in the grave as we await the heat of Hell’s fire

Can one rest in peace if we cared not for the innocent blood


Do we cry for this worlds innocent whose blood has been shed

Syria, Libya, Iraq, so much innocent blood soaks the ground

Can you rest at night if a gun is pointed against you head

Peace, rest, are they just figments of the imagination of the dead

Battle Of The Bulge

Of  yesterday and today the meaning is not the same

Both are war, both are hell, neither a game for the meek to play

Not now a tank we do stare down, nor goon squads dancing upon our throats

Tis a battle where once proud chests we did hold high

The enemy now our mirrors showing them resting upon our thighs

This battle of the bulge of which I now speak

Is today the weight of our bellies, butts, and thighs

Today we only exercise our thumbs

Upon the latest store bought game we play

Today if we walk at all, it’s just to the fridge to reload

We can now even buy the bulge within our pants

Just break your piggy and give the Drug Store man your change

Our modern world is built upon luxury

As our ever falling bellies do profess

Is it any wonder why our frames are in distress

We buy our garments way to big

We hide our flab in the way we dress

Will we even fit in the box when they lay us down to rest

When we all die at thirty-five

Of diabetes and heart disease?