The Lamp of Sleep

Sleep holds itself. In ancient worlds, with greenish moons that cleaved the dark, sleepers poured their hard lives into the quiet vestibule of death. Having spent the day cutting back some bitter shrubs that serve to block

jealous views of a grand estate, one goes to bed with the thought that night is not what it used to be, and when light has so sharp an edge the sunrise seems a mortal tide. Still the artless child rests their head

on hours each like a thousand years, and when they wake to puzzles that adults would place before them near the forest’s limitless appeal, they may find their way, to escape into those shady passages.

Against the vanity of work sleep installs its delicious pride, to be always overcoming, as the final repetition. Repeatedly and by itself, sleep will soften all things on Earth.

By Joshua Edwards