Sleep Is For The Dead Poem by James McLain

Sleeping pills and seroquel
enough to drop a horse and here
I'm still with you.
You in the grass on the Vale.
The dew is now found on the Lilly.
Before I wake
the sun is high my dream's aren't
of this world.
If you think of me of when you sleep.
I can't touch you though I'm there
unless you let me in.
I see you then not as you are but as
not in a dream.
It's not as though a heavy weight upon
you came to rest.
Nor when you feel your cover's move
between light sleep, awake.
The flutter of your lids upon
your eye's
as though warm wind blew through the room.
Rogue ripples make your nipples straight
and supple brushed quite hard.
By a hand that's not your own the risk
he takes you make your own.
Your room blow's
colder closed the flower opens and.
The shadow's on the other side of things are
yet to come you hold your breath.
Breathing in your ear goes warm and wet.
Creaking noises on the steps come closer to
your bed
and on your window pane the tapping that
won't stop until he comes.