Muffled voices in the distance,
Impassioned but incoherent,
Shake me from my sleep
Or so I think.
Rolling fog of night or sleep
Distorts my view.
Damp air pricks my skin
And droplets converge
Soaking beneath my clothes bone deep.
My bare feet lead the way,
Which I do not know.
Uneasiness pulses through my veins
As I round the corner of a familiar street,
Though it does not look the same as I recall.
The sacred cow comes into view
Amidst a pile of rubble where it makes its meal
On filth and despair.
Its sad eyes concede.
I am asleep as I lay at its feet,
Awake but asleep as I forsake it.