It is exquisite torture to succumb
To the desire to rest upon the bed
While finding heavy eyelids bothersome,
As lower droops the hebetudinous head.
But even as the lids rejoice to meet,
The brain cries out that tasks remain undone,
Thus jerking you awake – “Did I complete
A sonnet? No? May I post a re-run?”
But no, I grit my teeth and soldier on
Despite the fact my memory’s a sieve,
And my ideas die before they spawn
A single thing resembling narrative.
But when it’s done my mind and body race
To be the first to Morpheus’s embrace.