Now down to darkness declining and sleep,
the small death at the burnt end of each day.
Respite of wary, worried, and weary
minds beaten, broken by a care-worn world,
slumber, destroyer, creator of dreams,
afterlife of the living, yet to wake.
Don’t cheat me of time, of vitality.
One third of life unconscious? Enemy
mine, I will continue to fight and find
the way around the bleary-eyed waking
nettles of but a few hours respite.
I will scream and shout, raging against you,
and taking the consequences in stride.
Waking life persists when the day has died.
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