Sleep

Sleep, oh sleep, you are a foreign thing
Many a-nights have to forbidden me your pleasure
Teased my eyes at the edge of your wing
An inch from the flight of a dream of wonder
My mind a-muck, clouded by swimming thoughts
No silence, no reprieve
What it is, what it can be, what it will never not
The taste of truth threatening to tip with the slightest breeze
Yet ho we stand, shrouded and discolored
The sun paints the horizon in a reddish pink complexion
Heavy lids, flesh pale, a bed so cold in which I waller
No long does the sun rise offer any mystification
So many times have these darkened eyes gazed upon the mystery
So long ago has a thick dread settled on the thought of a dream
So very long has the sky shown me nothing but mockery
So often it is that my eyes gleam
With the thoughts of the silence, I cannot discern the cause
That is the waking world that appears the slumber
Inescapable, more perfect that Alcatraz
And why it is either is a horror.





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