I sit by old candlelight
in the dead of night
finishing my work
which has become an irk.

Now I crave
what is unattainable by day
(unless you live in a cave).
The succulent silence of slumber
that is heavily hung over
by the Weavers of the Night
cast by lord of dream,
Mystic Morpheus,
that cradles one in a stream
leading to a lake
where spirits of past
rest
like oystered pearls.

Oh, Ode to sleep.