Sleeping, and its ails, cures

Sometimes, sleeping
seems the best cure,
for that what ails me,

The bitter breath

of the day past,

the aches and pains of lost

conversations, lovers never having heard

“I Love You”, uttered for the flrst,

-for the last time,

The gentle thoughts

of what sleep might bring, are torn

and ripped from my memory, into

the dreams which have decided if I am to live

-or to die,

To die a thousand deaths, night after night

or, to sleep peacefully, along someone, who dares

to share my fate, together with me


The rest, the anguished thoughts

the lovers scorned, vanish

with the light through the windows,

The angels and devils of sleep, gone away


Until I chance to sleep, again