Sleep

I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness of day glaring like the Cyclops' eye in a forehead of furrows. But I wake always reluctantly, brushing the dreamcrumbs from my lids, walking sideways underwater like a crab spilling coffee, knocking the mug to the floor where it shatters in a muddy river to my continuo of 'Shit, shit, shit!' What if death is only a forgetting to wake in the morning, a dream that goes on into other corridors, other chambers draped with other silks, libraries of unwritten books whose caleidoscopic pages can be read only by the pinneal eye, music that can only be heard by the seventh sense or the eighth or ninth, until we possess an infinity of senses- none of them dependent on flesh? What if our love of sleep is only a foretaste of the bliss that awaits us when we do not have to wake again? What frightens us so about falling? To dropp the body and fly should be as natural as drifting into a dream. But we are insomniacs tossing on soaked sheets, hanging on to our intricate pain while God with her sweet Mona Lisa smile sings lullabyes the ears of the living cannot hear.