She lies arrayed in languid form
and deep within her flurried mind
the nightly patterns interweave
igniting flames of fantasy.
In homage to her servitude
a victim of unfettered dreams
of sands that trickle in the glass
and well honed scythes that swing.
And on she sleeps till embers die
to wake anew with fevered brow
and lie as if in cast of bronze
in early mornings solitude.