The clock ticks in the darkness,
Internal mechanisms gearing it toward the next minute,
Shifting it to the next hour,
Clicking me to the next day.
I see the red lights on my electronics glowing,
They ask me for another game,
A new match,
The next round,
Another episode.
I decline though.
I hear the comforting sound of the airconditioner,
Delivering me air like sweet gifts from God.
The ceiling fan is silent, churning the air.
I hear the outdoor orchestra rossen up their bows,
preparing for the next night long performance under the stars.
My curtains blow in the artificially cooled air.
Then my blanket hugs me close and I cuddle into my pillows.
The house creaks just a little,
A nice dose of paranoia before bed,
And I know I am safe.
Sleep rests at the bottom of a precipice,
I\'m on the edge,
Ready to fall into wonderland,
Down the rabbit hole.
I\'m on the brink.
At the bottom I am consumed by sleep,
My eyes dart around the inside of my brain,
Looking at the scenery,
Taking it all in.
However - little oysters -
Always recall,
Sometimes the precipice is a metaphor,
And sometimes it\'s a true fall.