sleep

Is it an angry’s minor key …
Pent-up balances and sudden trysts,
Combustion, playing down the hall, 
Angsty peppered gentlemen in pinups and in burgundy.
One takes my wrist—sleep the wedded tyrant,
Against the likes of which he had foretold rebellion—
Yet what is alike so fanciful a sleep one afternoon,
Reverie for those who cannot make the trip at night—
And we are told by petty dames and swearing maids, 
Existence in a world in which the rooster crows the stumbling, 
Tumbling down to sinks and peachy tables breakfastful,
With pancakes, boysenberry marmalades, and honeys, teas and strawberries,
A morselful of sugary countenance, mermaids counting
Down the hours till they may return again, enjoy
An evening quite unlike my bulbous catered picnicking —
At nights they flip a switch, recite a psalm or two, 
Bedtime stories for the secular, the dawn of midnight sees
A pair of starbright eyes beneath a veil called slumber. 
The hours pass by tediously. He reaches up a fistful of
Serendipity aimed towards the sky, to ask it what—
And what if I should ask for such a similar gift, that
Swollen hour or two they always call so blissful,
And what if I should take it in my palms to smother deep
Beneath my eyes, a modicum of all that I’ve been scolded to — 
Never sleep a minute in the night, is always sounding on the
Sofa in the afternoons, complaints of intermittent headache —
Yet what if they should use the quaint disaster written on the walls. 
Insomniac attempts to sleep at night and weeps. He bawls all night, 
Begging for a measly bludgeon of the universe,
To know it all, to know it called by name — Here sleep! Insomniac.
The moonshine laughs. The stars send him a grimace maliceful. 
Another irony of fate fulfilled. And he shall always be
Knocked upon by knuckles of society — Sleep, my child, sleep! 
A sleepless murder taken. Let him be! But let him be!