The Battle

Thy pernicious form
Perched high above
Like an evil king
Looking down and leering
Eagerly awaiting doom.
Blissful peace and happy dreams
All too soon do end,
When the Monarch black,
Trumpets out the hideous sound
And bids me up into the dark.
My hands implore
The noise to stop,
Begging, pleading respite.
The unrelentless screeching
Makes my anger boil.
My outstretched hand transforms
Into a violent fist.
Freedom comes through war,
And repeatedly I strike
That evil king,
Whose power I seek to overthrow.
Soon the fervor and the shrieking
Turn to silence.
My fist is bruised and bleeding,
But I am triumphant.
My alarm clock
Has been deposed,
And I return to
Blissful peace and happy, happy dreams.