Question

write a poem about sleep

Answer 1

Night folds its palms over the edges of the day,
a slow, soft reckoning of light and work.
Breath thins to the hush of tides retreating from the shore,
and the room becomes a small, familiar sea.

Eyelids lower like curtains on a crowded stage;
thoughts loosen their tight knots and wander
down corridors of remembered songs and half-remembered names.
Memory sifts like sand through fingers—some grains cling, most fall.

Sleep arrives not as a demand but a kindly thief,
stealing the clamor, returning the margins of quiet.
Dreams unfurl—paper boats on an inland river,
carried by currents that know no maps.

Morning waits on the other side like a polite guest,
soft-footed, patient, bringing light in its pockets.
Until then, surrender to the gentle amnesia:
let the heart unlearn the day's anxieties,
let the body return to its slow, covenantal rhythm—
and be held, if only for hours,
by the cool, untroubled hand of sleep.