The Little Death

Past Sleep

Sleep is a little Death. Thus every day
Our rest diurnal face to face with Death
We consummate. Time slips softly away.
We age. When tempted: cling to every breath.
Why for? Is crippled Life so dear a thing
That nothing could be better? Why persist
In hanging on by fingers, lingering
Upon this dying earth? Just to exist
Is such a squalid dream. To really live
We must ascend to heaven. When we sleep
God grants to us a gift but He can give
Which one day our flesh will perpetually keep.
To sleep – to die a little bit each day
Takes what is mortal and sloughs it away.
What is immortal shall endure, I say.

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