Brexit Sonnet No. 152 – ‘Wake Up!’

A sleeping teenager; that’s what we are now.
No amount of shaking, no alarm,
No unholy goddamn shrieking row,
Can wake us, or shake us from this Brexit harm.
Wake-up call arrives and on we plough,
Rapidly moving eyes, but blind to all,
Blind to all but dreams our brains allow
And blind to trips that cause the fatal fall.
To sleep, perchance to dream- ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
What dreams, what hopes destroyed by Brexit’s snub,
To what somnolent fantasises do we now succumb?
So put aside this teenage life of sleep,
Wake up! And your appointed future keep.

© Keith Murphy