Of Ziyad

“May the fingers of tyranny allow me some peace
When I dig and stay in a grave”.
So, dug a “grave” Ziyad did and goes to sleep “in peace”.
Or so he thinks, since he feels to be no longer a slave
of his environment, and of the politics of his state.
And so Ziyad goes and comes back to his chosen space,
Assured that his new found peace would not cease. 
He would stay in his grave and sleep as he so wish.
Questions were asked: “Why would Ziyad be such a cavefish?”.
“To live in a grave as though it was ones birthplace?”.
Busybodies convert his condition to a workspace.
Well, may such be someone’s headache, as for Ziyad
He strives and, at sunset, retires to “his grave”.

Nay, no freedom is there, after all, in “freetown”,
“Ziyad has abandoned his townspeople”,
the news adulteratingly filtered to the Crown,
Who ordered him to be dragged to the village steeple”.
Hauled he was, cloths tattered, blood smeared.
“How dare you intrude”, said Ziyad, “and disrupt
the Royal Council that I preside over , in my sleep, as a Sovereign?”
Laughed the King, who taunted Ziyad for 'hallucinating'.
“Laugh as you please”, a serious Ziyad rebuked the king,
“But mind your burden and your nauseating
insentience at the fragility of the powers you so cling.
While my fantasy ends as you woke me up from sleep,
Your reign withers off as you go to your final sleep”.