Fearful Slumber.

Sleep, quintessential need of all.

Craved, yet distrusted by (wo)men.

Sleep, like his senior brother, death;

make the strong vulnerable, the weak

more hapless. But sleep must, must we not?

To rejuvenate that which a man makes.

 

 

Cold sweat of dreams puncture the bliss

of sleep; and the body craves the preference

of night owls for chatter which tatters the flesh.

Tattles, gossips, calls are welcomed; so long

as the head does not nod to the drumbeats

of sleep. Fatigue be damned. No sleep tonight!

 

 

Who/what will intercede between sleep

and this mortal fear of slumbering to death?

What guarantees do we have that slumber

will remain so, and not a procession to a crypt?

Any panacea for the dumbing angst?

What elixir for this morbid fear of sepulchers?

 

 

There is but one tonic, freely given to all.

It requires trust so base, that others will

troll at those who freely have it in Him; in

whose hands the twists, turns, tides of mortals

lay. He commands sleep, death bows to Him.

Sleep well when you have Him for a pillow.

 

 

© 30th December 2016. Adewale Adeniji.

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