Memories of the future
gather over my mind
like dark storm clouds
each charged potential
demanding my attention,
my energy,
there isn't enough time
in a life to do all
my mind can conceive
and sleep, only one
of forty thieves
steals precious time.
If I could only wean
my spoiled mind
of the ritual of nightly death!
After all, God knows I don't need
sleep's thieving embrace
to dream
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem