Question

write a poem about sleep

Answer 1

Sleep arrives like a small, deliberate tide,
rolling the edges of the world inward until there is only hush.
It folds the day like a letter, tucks its corners into pockets
where the heart can breathe without accusation.

In the dark a thin orchestra sets up—clock ticks soften into velvet,
dream-fragments tune themselves to the breath,
and shadows, careful as librarians, shelve the bright things
so memory can read them with new eyes.

Sleep is a slow locksmith, turning the teeth of worry,
unlocking rooms where pain can lay down its tools and sleep.
It mends the thin places between thoughts, stitching the ragged seams
with thread pulled from the quiet of the lungs.

When morning peels back the curtain, it is never the same world:
some pains unpicked, some joys enlarged, all of us a little lighter,
the day releavened by the invisible yeast of rest—
a small miracle done in the dark, felt at the first light.