Ambien

The muddle of sleep— The grand entrance to Morpheus' legendary palace In whole or half a tablet; Easy breaths of chemicals In pretty, light-refracting bottles. I prepare myself for an escorted journey To where dreams float from their origin Like glossy bubbles through netted neurons I am the keeper of sedatives— An expert in manoeuvring through fallen thoughts Don't they know I need sleep too? I need this perceived travel through time To kiss my lips— To enter slowly with its glowing tongue And seduce my mind into a comfortable numbness— To lug it, like a limp body, Away from the sounds of rubber through rain Onto a restful shore. Yes, I do vie For my senses to trip, drunkenly, Over one and other Like a vague rolling wave in cloudy space. It is actually a religion Or maybe I'm confusing it with religious consumption— Swallowing rotund solidity Like a whore swallows fluidity. This is not ecstasy This is prescribed tranquility, so it's OK. Okay, and infinitely sweeter, Because it does not put me in a hot air balloon With a finite fire. I don't ever need to descend; Just open my eyes to the sun through my blinds Society is dancing on my back Across my stomach Trying to expel the demon inside me. I love these molecular robots; They drift with a purpose and close the dock Where insomnia frequents. Afternoon shakes off grogginess, The invisible lotus leaf Stamped on my brow, And pulls me up the conscious ladder. I don't want to be here. Circles of slumber—those precious pills Are always as good as I want them to be— As I beg them to be— As I need them to be.