That Of Sleep

That of me,
the sleep I do
can call a nap,
in mid afternoon,
is so fantastic
I cannot ever miss.

The pendulum goes
with a gong marking
one past thirty
wherever I am
my eyes turn heavy, sink
into at transitory death

That being with me
I go to bed at nine
past thirty in the night,
sleep embraces, I turn
oblivious to what happens
around me. I lie dead as a log.

At midnight I get up
stay awake for
two to three hours,
tossing in the bed,
thinking of the past,
and of the future, as if
I am going to live forever.

That is of me,
where slumber
takes the better of me
obviously sailing in the realms
happy, deliberating deep
and shuttling swift between
morn and night.