Sleep is beneath an arbor of silken bedclothes
Sleep is a mound of fragrant rose petals
Sleep is the sleep of Beauty in her bower
The sun is glowing molten white through frosted glass
By the time I am done with my shower the room is almost dark
Then it is time to climb into a mound of silken bedclothes cloaked in deep curtains
And yearn for restorative sleep
Sleep is the sleep of the restless
The burning
Endless dark moments in a cold void
Peering out from bedclothes into the dark
Fearfully
Going downstairs
Eating
Writing in my journal
Terribly awake now
I am out of the house before the sun rises
And my eyes are burning and my face looks old
Because the sleep of innocents and angels has become a fairy tale
Sleep is the sleep of Beauty in her bower, Rapunzel in her tower
Her long, long hair bound in a tight golden diadem
Sleep is long slim hands clinging to silken white pillows
Breathing softly in tandem to the gentle wind swaying the curtains
Inhaling the scent from the roses climbing the stone wall
Sleep is the sleep of the princess
The sleep of Beauty