The hung moon smiles
Squeezing through the crack in my curtains
This tight space
Her reach invades
I endeavor to stave her off
Needing peace
Needing quiet
From the noise of beyond

My Mistress sleep sweetly calls me
Offering her pillow-soft caresses
The forked tongue
Promises release
Resembling dead men and their Sirens
Or the apple offered to Adam
Inevitably trudging to an effervescent doom

Upon the alter of dreams
I lay my request of paper clouds
Lurching forward the Seraphim flies
To the stolen peace of night
And I am sated and satisfied