Brought on by the Succumbing Nature of Material Comfort

Wrote the thing, a gracious endeavor
into the mind we never have been
the object of serenity.

Water, our life blood that flows unbound
by convention. Continuously strive
for a forgotten peace that grows
faithfully between bird in flight
and needles falling to the ground
to be forgotten among the shrubs
of yesteryear's hate.

Please awake from this dream
focused upon streets full with parades
of glory to come or has been. And yet.

What are we, two hundred some years
of development like the dragon grown.
Content with gold stolen and never
again to rise to a bliss of flight.
We lay and soak in basks
of golden false delight. Till tiny,
merely invisible Bilbo of nations will

cause the greed of beast to take
again to skies moisten against strength
for nothing more than the revenge flight

only to perish at the true sighted
visionary compelled by grace and strength
will we be struck to that cold undistinguished
extinguished bed of death.