Sleep

Never care how much one desires at night,
when sleep is awake,
but the art of the eyes is still.
Noises shake the stillness,
and a loved one's snore
plays the music of desire.

Images come,
greeting this art of pondering.
A hole within the whole,
traveling into darkness.
What is it for the Self to sleep without it?

A warm hug for a few seconds,
and an eternity for a wake-up call.
Perhaps the specters watch,
like an old theater show,
the great comedy of a sleepy pond.