Sleep is the stale breath
that leaks from your mouth.

It escaped out of my nostrils,
and found itself deep in your lungs,
granting you with its heavy eyes,
and vivid visions of wondrous places
far, far away, and far off.

It refuses to enter my being.
It treats me as a stranger,
or a sailor lost at sea;
just another poor soul
lusting for what it cannot obtain.

So sweetly sleep dances around your pillow
giving you dreams of lion taming,
to which you toss and turn valiantly,
and manage to shove me
to the desolate and sleepless
corner of the bed,
with no room for my lions,
or ships, or seas,
taking the covers with you.