Forty-winks

Wrinkled flannel under my chin and
My closing eyes a passport to familiar territory
Where skilled archivists have rearranged my life.
Using society rejects to play the parts
That change each night,
Dreaming becomes a mini-death and almost-resurrection.
Feet shuffle to the counterpoint and
The clatter behind my eyes,
Of vague remembrances and dried tears
Wind-up clock, baby cries, worry or pain.
No matter, I’ve come back
None the wiser.

My thoughts on Sleep for Sunday Scribblings. Nudge more sleepyheads here. Painting by Henri Rousseau, The Sleeping Gypsy.