I think I like to sleep, but I’m not there
to judge; it’s only as I start to fall
to slumber, that I’m comfortably aware
my latest thoughts are what I can’t recall.
As I relax, I set my hands to rest;
I still my feet and respiration slows.
When I’m about to be by sleep possessed,
I cannot sense my parts with eyelids closed.
If sleep’s a little death, then let my death
approach like the transition into sleep.
Allow me not to track, near my last breath,
whatever thoughts I vainly thought I’d keep.
And let me lose my old extremities,
with digits stilled in sinking memories.