The back of my eyes,
Feel as they lay to rest,
On a hard table, made of oak.

Pained by the pressure,
Of their very own weight.
While in rest, do they wish to soak.

Sleepy is a term,
Often they are named.
But wide and alert, do they seem to rest.

While bearing dreams of their own,
Of being embraced by darkness,
Melting away, into sweet slumbers chest...