I now I lay my weary head.
I have no hopes to wish from bed.
Be I live or be I dead,
the matter’s small to me.
(wish for change within?)
And as I lay me down to sleep,
I say goodnight. Cold soul to keep.
No passioned hope to sow or reap.
No dreams to be not be.
(almost all broken)
I lay asleep in weary slumber.
The covers neat that I lay under.
No toss and turn — sheets not asunder.
No visions there to see.
(blank gray emptiness)
And so beneath the setted sun,
no passioned breath, no Dreams to Come.
My only hope? To touch someone.
Perhaps they’ll dream for me?
(hope their dreams come true)