THEIF!

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THEIF!
you rob me of my sleep

by night i lay alone,
neatly wrapped in a chrysalis of down,
my sandy, oceanic eyes closed,
you creep into my thoughts
and slink 'round my twilight world of fantasy
fingers dragging cross dossiers and artifacts sexily,
as you roam room to room,
choosing what, by silent slight of hand you'll slip away and make your own;
you deprive me of nighttime treasures
while from your depravity i derive novel pleasure;
so, thief, leave and come again,
but don't take the rest
from my tranquil home

📂

Insomnia can probably take credit for half of all poetry and prose. Paying homage to Hot Chip, the thief here is more like a densworth - everything from crushes and infatuations to worries and anticipations. My mind loses track of things quite readily, but this is particularly true of the thoughts, dreams, and poetry that immediately precede or follow sleep.

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