where the dust rests wearily upon walled stone
and timed presences are free to roam
to offer a consistently interrupted creaking groan
in which to sleepily follow to a half faded smiling crone
ironically in living room sat reading a grim mourned heavy tome
black leather bound with electrical wisps, to adorn a crackling crown
fingers of bone find the words to underline for her to silently mime
instruct light whispered blindness to disparage the senses from her mortally endangered advances
force a fall prone to rest beneath her clawing possessive tearing tones
recited on an echoing repeat, an incomprehensible hypnosis encouraging sleep
to awake in my home all but alone and thank the angelic night hooded crone
for piecing together the rest that lied asunder.
For knowing even insomniacs need their slumber.