They ask me why I sleep so much,
Do they not know?
Have they not seen the world?
The throes of its descent?
The night is an escape,
Sleep is a shroud,
An aegis of unconsciousness,
It protects the spirit in its nocturnal embrace,
As I snore,
The horrors of the world don’t exist,
The gripes of phantoms are inaudible,
And the stink of blight does not stir me,
Am I slothful?
Perhaps,
Yet I don’t sleep for fatigue,
It’s not so plain as that,
I sleep to not be awake.
