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I do not know what it is about a bed that compels us to longevity,
to slumber eternity in our wildest of dreams.
Might it be the warmth of its sheets that invites us to prolong our stay.
The wholesome tenderness that hugs us tight in its cover.
Tucked into our safety net, a mother's arm to a child,
where we only live to love and let die.

May it be our sheer will to live the day that chains us to our bedside,
a slave to time, a ***** to work.
We are but men comprised of exhaustion and sacrifice.
A time set aside to pamper ourselves for a while more.
A longing to heal a little further, to rejuvenate our spirits a little greater.
To fix the dark parts in our lives with black sunsets underneath our eyes,
hollowed willow trees in late night dreams carved into our flesh.

May it be for a better life, one less bitter and sour,
sheltered from the chaos upon us these years.
Tyrannies upon our souls, bomb brigades and racketeers.
A shelter, a feeding frenzy of tranquility that keeps us grasping onto life.

Is my bed but a place where my monsters hide underneath,
maybe we sweep our pain underneath the covers
and rest shame and guilt on our pillows
hoping to bring a rest to our demons of the dark
when the sun rises the next day,
soldiers forlorn to leave our post till day breaks.

Or is our answer, E “all of the above”.
Our will beaten till death pulls us apart in our night gowns
and whispers “sleep thy will, eternity”.
And temptation rages beyond our control
with a red flag glued to our hearts
tired of the ******* life charges at us.
Originally written in pros,  but broken up for the hell of it

— The End —