I rest in my uniform home,
Gazing at the dim moonlight beams
Running through my cold-holed walls
Through which I chat with the whistling wind.

Through my nose, emanates a thick foam,
Motivated by dust and heating fumes
Which bring joy and magnify walls
Which night crawlers struggle to find.

As the sun illuminates our shanty Rome,
I am blinded by the reflected sunbeams
Indicating light behind the endless night falls
In which we have been confined.

Talk of realizing what appears as fiction,
Talk of not needing to count sheep,
And having thoughtless sleep;
Talk of motivation.