by Stefon Napier18 Mar 2014
That December, I had written
a wishes call among idle slumbers
for privileged years
and fraternity songs.
Answered, thus my dream was given bread.
Not often are ones hopes fed
No finer nourishment in life then to be
Yet how soon does that innocent cradle end
that the wrath of men begin
and the friends of them are merely trends.
Young mocking birds and dense hens.
And like Tecumseh returned
and his dream he did see,
laying about a battlefield, Tippecanoe,
that his dread began to bleed.
Yet that my pen must petition
That our scant soul meets a vision,
to say that through distress we've risen,
though our hearts are not driven.