a severe pummeling

when we reach for our innermost
we realize it has taken a severe pummeling
of monotony and void, spiritual frost,
and we ignore the cost of these barren fields

long time ago, we discarded swords and shields,
along with ploughs and fields of hunger,
but in the process life became a distant dream,
in darker days, a rarer to see sun gleam
(we no longer really care)

as a long long night descends on us
we withdraw inside our yet unscathed skin,
a blank journey not worthy of chronicle or saga,
history or mystery

we see no sin, pinned to our old habits, and haggard,
we busy around in coldness, but
the big nothingness is everywhere
and we secretly, unconsciously, desire war,
authority, strength and common purpose,
rituals of lost epochs we keep an animal memory of...

the hatred rising will relieve us of all those things