London Poem: Day 140

4 January

To sleep,
As the languid hours pass,
Would satisfy,
But undoubtedly it never comes.
Heavy lidded as the wide,
Sombre hours unwind
In a slow, lengthy bloom and
The chill doesn’t wait for
Sleep to come.
Where are you?
Twisting in shapeless dreams,
Pushing restful reacquaintance
Into that deepening,
Unending night?
Surely the horizon arches
Beyond eyesight,
But for now the dark deepens
And flattens the world
So that these eyes seem
To never shut.

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