sleep is an oven of sorts
where imagined ingredients,
leftovers of the day,
make up the night's souffle
delicate, delectable
it rises from rapid eyes
so fragile its acknowledgement
leads to its demise
a dessert for the subconscious
as light as cotton
and when the sun ends the feast
its all but forgotten

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem