Wednesday, January 20, 2016
In My Sleeping Hours
In my sleep the hours are longer than me,
In this waking fortunate deal called the day
I speak to the loved storm so bright and charming.
It speaks to me torrentially, like a tropical forest
Which worsens in dainty help, into the premises
Of the promises, onto sacred crests and troughs.
In this side of ceremony, my waking life adores
Fountains of the highest men, who walk
Such superb banquets after their money vanishes.
This sleeping life morbidly spins around sons,
Then daughters fold their papers, these demonstrations
Forsake the oldest dreams, of longer measures.
The life is to sleep afterwards, like it did inwardly,
Praising seconds of living in fine embroidery,
Celebrating the eyes so feminine in solutions.
Topic(s) of this poem: sleeping