Aloft, the mattresses on which she sits Are facades that shield much more troubling things. Their roots are grounded deep inside the pits That stop solutions; soon, the bars will bring Another pea to which the mounds will mold. Bedsprings try to push parasites from her, But soon tendrils will render her stone cold. Naught can stop progression, if I concur. As for things besides, that pea rots, growing, Into another monster without rest, And till the truth emancipates, the sting Can melt the layers entirely in jest. Though, when that day comes for longer sleeping, Peace is felt by her who’s longed for keeping.