Insidious as time is, sneaking days
by us, accumulating weeks to years,
digesting us entirely in ways
a snake would envy (how it disappears
like clockwork – now is then and will is would),
that powerful is Morpheus, that steep,
seducing us by lethargy as good
as opium, to somnolence, to sleep.

We love to nap. We sink as glad to rest
as to massage. A sleepwalk through a day
is recollected “good,” like one is blessed
to live with least existence. That’s the way
the world appears, but can it really be
our fate to dream away mortality?