A little death

 
Sleep is a little death.
Everyday you wake up less then you were
The night before.
Leaving tiny pieces of yourself
In your nightmares
And your dreams
In both happy and dark places
Some screaming and others blissfully unaware
That they ever existed anywhere but paradise.
Rejoicing in their brokeness.

Sleep is a tight coffin
Holding you like a warm wooden blanket
Its rough timber splintering your skin
With promises of solace and release
From the pain of conciousness
the worries of a days life
the bright light burning your sight
To blindness.
So you close your eyes and beg the little death to take you.

There is no habour for your soul
Sailing on a sea of sirens
Whose song echoes in the boughs of this ship of slumber
Cast away on an ocean of nowhere
With no map to mark the way
You are free.
In the prison of the little death
Whose kingdom has no horizon.
Waiting for a sun that may never rise
On your silk lined rosewood resting place.