Spring 2020 A Sonnet

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,

We are the dead, who fret and barely slumber.

We are the dead, the ones you cannot please

And still we don’t exist in extra number.

And yet our end you’d barely countenance.

Because you feared the truth, you knew not death,

The end of life you thought incompetence

And so, in fear, stole liberty’s last breath.

We are the dead who would have always died,

We are the dead who never could survive.

We’re those who gladly would have fought, denied

Each sad attempt to keep our flesh alive.

We do not rest in peace, but rest in dread:

You tried to steal freedom in our stead.