Day is leaving.
Only sleep will put me
together again.
Day and night.
The arms and legs of time.
Rest and renewal.
In death there is no sleep.
Death has no rest.
It is hard as stone.
We plant our innocence in sleep.
Each day we rise,
a diurnal life,
and turn to dawn.
Our rest good
if we accept forgetting.
Touch our faces
and say yes.
Nothing repeats itself.
Only little fates chasing us.
Life is existential sorrow
or success.
Entirely up to us.
Sleep, entrance
to a daily birth.
For starters,
I pack my bag with love.