Colour is not the point,
like beams of light that
                     do anoint
the hour which I lay flat
and wait for rest, or at
which point in the dark
                                      do I wrest it from a faerie light
or must I wrestle with
a bottle, pills to cause my ills to slip away and let the
pillow absorb my day, my worries, my strain,
where the engine,
has no off switch,
this engine sits on
top of me not purring
not whirring but
running rough shod
through me, I will not
admit to being sleepless, for by the time I write this,
you will all be in the land,
that I am jealous of, see?

Oh colour?
Which pill will I take,
I have different shades
for different days, and Hades,
waits for me as well, for one
of these times I may take too
many, but I am sparse would
not want to be left without any,
so those gates stay shuttered
as I wrap up and shudder,
through another night
where the next days, and days
dawn and I fawn over
my appearance, eyes with
circles dark, pale image stark
in a mirror, to the point, the clown
smiles back at me and asks
to be happy or not to be sad?,
I need sleep so pass a whole bowlful,
of sleep that all of you have too much of,
                              and push and shove
me
with
your
bed time stories,
nursery rhymes,
and lullabies,
in poetry and I will read what I need
                         to let go and let sleep
steep me overnight, when I will wake
                 up and pour into another day,
the literary love you have shown this poets way.