Sleep And Other Anachronisms

Sleep lies caught up in the curtains, in day times; Curled in on itself, against the brightness of the day, Squinting among the abandoned dreams from last night, Still lying scattered, like discarded New Year's decorations. The prying eyes of the awakened world are trying, straining To peer through each pinhole, of the loose linens's weave- And the hands- sudden hands that clutch and move the stiff fabric aside- More dream than real- are gone in a flash, as if they never were. A variegated lightning storm passes among the panes With each cars headlights, tail lights; Flashing a warning against late sleepers, in a constant migrainiers Morse code. Now the rain comes tap-tapping on the windows, As if trying to awaken bleary-eyed Sleep, From its sacrilegious habit of napping. The thunder seems to moan distinctly; a far off deliciousness, Murmuring about laze-a-beds, who never amount to anything.. Birds are busy outside, their beady eyes jumping Looking for tidbits, left-overs of night terrors; A crumb from the anachronisms of constellations now invisible, Back from the days when they were called terrible lizards, As the night owls hide their heads beneath their wings. The janitor appears to sweep all the glitzy remnants away- Some caught, some still crinkly, still iridescent with stars- In his rake, in his brooms- He trails the glittery fallen stars all the way to the dumpster And deposits them there, to wait for the regenerating effects of sunset. And sleep stretches, then; yawns indigently, and starts to stir itself finally. A surfeit of dreams has been building all day, Hidden from the brilliant contaminant of sun, Peaking the mammal's melatonin, Preparing to fill all the light with shadow, instead: Soon the curtain comes down once more..