There is poison in the words

don't listen
when sleep is squandered
and sanity is slipping
every rasp of rough cotton
has her name within the sighs
no
more thoughts
of Sistine chapels in invisible ink
or the futility of grand gestures
sleep now
picture stroke
after perfect stroke
layered upon each other
and dream a pretty scene
of a daydream on a summers day
the sun would warm
the air would soothe
but those almond eyes would never rest
and even in that world
without a word
the end would always come
calling