Somnia: the  poet’s  hourglass.

Subtle coma- encompassing my eyes-smudging my gleaning pen’s into. Into dreaming I dare not sink;      
       
I dare not enter that lullaby land.
Left are thoughts to be writ,  
but Slumber’s hand shall bid them flit        
       
Out my mind; out the door; unreturning like Poe’s ‘Lenore’. My words: a corvid- “nevermore!”        
       
My Pages’ drinking of my poetry, seems as distant as a “Swinging tree”.  
Falling into hollow sleep, I lay, parched for text,    
a ‘Hollow man’ drifting into the deep.        
Drifting further than ‘Khubla Khan’ into my mind’s cavernous  Xanadu.                                                                                                                                                                          
 My verse drowned by Slumber and the Night’s cruel, ongoing ban a reminder that “I may cease to be” before I’ve written my place in history...