How profound is Sleep that it's said to be?
Perhaps it plays promised bated Death,
While we lay in slumber, are we not free?
Life itself aids us with our each next breath;
Senses shout Night's doubt; indebted decree,
Granted by Presence we, now, fear bereft;
As Darkness finds form to greater degree,
We awake, grasp nocturnal remnants left,
And grieve loss, Revelation's near turned key,
Absolute coincidence, prized past worth;
Only through closed eyes might we, again, see
That All's as True as our orbiting Earth;
We do each Day as each Day does we,
And, at rest, we dream Cosmic endless glee.
Copyright © Ryan McCabe