I want to sleep until the moon is full.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

It's like your sadness.
It looks at me with screaming eyes
under uninterested brows
through black holes.
It scoops crystals under your couch
and doesn't hesitate to tell me
that it's happy to be here.

It presses piano keys with disdain,
beckoning sinuous  sounds of
catharsis.

What is this  
furnace
that burns us?
Why does this
sternness
turns us
worthless?

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
I want to sleep until I get back.
I want to sleep until I've found what's real.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

You could do with some shut-eye yourself it seems.