Sleep

What can I tell you about my lover, Sleep?
Each night through locked doors she enters my room
Doorman never giving warning. Shoes in hand
She treads lightly down the hall, my
Chamber door opens noiselessly and quickly
Till in seconds she is sitting on the bed.
The corner sinks where she settles.
I do not want her.
But her moves are quick
She is like a windmill in the wind
Many-handed, tall on the brow of a hill.
I do not want her
But the fringe on her glove is so thick, it
Swarms with aromas, brushes my lips,
She holds...

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!