Tired is raw
Coffee-coloured desperation
Straining, searching red eyes
Walking and walking and endless walking
Through the halls of an immense house
Maybe you find a room of sand
Maybe you find a rough paper bed
Maybe you find another hallway
Leading to another beyond it
Pleading, begging, needing
To rest just for a moment or two
But the House of Tired
It doesn’t relinquish its catches
At least
Not without a share of their blood and tears.

The House of Sleepy is another kind
A home of pillows and clouds and comfort
Dreams drift its halls
Dreams of a night-type slumber
A sky dusted with stars and cosmos
A lazy cloud past a crescent moon
Weightless thoughts
Of smooth, gentle brushes
Of soft skin against soft sheet
As you slowly
Ever so slowly
Drift into the realm of sleep.