On Sleep

There's a knock
at the door,
and I,
laying down,
ask,
"who is there?"

A familiar voice
replies with
a friendly name,

But I am unwilling
to answer.

The canyons in my bed
sheets amaze me in my
dreams while the sloth

of a sleepy afternoon
seems like the most
selfish sin.

I roll
onto my side,
my aching shoulders,

but I refuse to roll
onto my back,
where I may dream

of god and her treachery.
Nightmares of abandonment
and the fading faces

of those who should love me
litter my dawning hours.

Falling asleep is
a depressing dance,
and I am most afraid

of missing you too much
when my burdened eyes
dare to crust over and shut.

Yet,
is it too much
to say
that I think
I am dying

when I drift
so slowly toward
that eight hour
prison beyond me?