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.