Sleep, A Circle Of Poem by George Semper

Sleep waits for the most gracious of time. When a touch of another provides the arousing moments that propel our existence into a euphoric state far advanced from mere human compulsory needs. Where the time has no meaning but a space to share, emotions that overwhelm and the intertwining of another's mind, their bodies, their hearts and their soul. For love conquers all, even our sleep.

Sleep arrives in its appointed time from the consistent hour of every night when we lay our head against the pillow. The comfort of knowing that at that hour we have assigned a time to let our bodies rest. A time in which our soul craves to stretch it unlimited power in the realm of the spirit and in the quietness of the world.

Sleep arrives in its own time within the time we are graced to rest. To give nourishment from a full day. We have arrived at a time which we have labored no more for that day. The time in which we pushed our bodies to exhaustion is no more. We have been set upon a place of peace in which a world that dictates our inner thoughts, our central being has now begun to have its sunrise. Our dreams are now in control.

Sleep arrives but not on time. Oh why do they intently keep me from where God has asked that I be? Could all that is so important keep me away from the time my temple should rest...? Have the masters of earth decided to rule over what is rightfully a time blessed from above. Who would force such a despicable act as not to let this tired and weary man be at full ease so that I may continue fresh if so blessed with another day. Please I wait to let my soul say… Goodnight

Sleep will not come this day. I have made war with the body, emasculated on the battlefield we stand ready, ready to make war on our soul. We have come to look deep within each eye to know there will be no rest this day. There will be no revitalization or time to dream of another day's sunrise. All thoughts will be on standby an abyss to this moment. Peace does not exist here and only the vision of a dreary day will paint the background of this canvas. The stale smell of a day gone by will flow slowly through the brush of whiskers that have grown like wild grass on the plain as the next word you hear will evaporate into the unconsciousness of time and comprehension is no more.